


Let Me Be Your Fortress

by ConsultingPurplePants



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Brief Torture, F/M, First Time, Head Injury, John has a rage whisper, John ogles Sherlock and is a bad man, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Magical Realism, Mentions of alcoholism, Moriarty has seen The Shining, Night At the Museum AU, Oops, Recovery, Rimming, Saucy winking, Suicidal Thoughts, did i forget to mention the angst, handjobs, hiding from a gorilla, probably too much cackling, unnecessary sunglasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-05-29 17:43:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6386011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson is a night watchman at the Natural History Museum.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is a researcher for the nearby Imperial College London.</p><p>Yup. It's a <em>Night at the Museum</em> AU.</p><p>Please don't judge me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so as some of you know this idea has been bouncing around in my head for months and I only recently got up the courage and/or time to actually do something about it. 
> 
> And for the first time, this shit is actually beta'ed!!! So I'd like to thank [**sherrllocked**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sherrllocked) for being awesome and putting up with my incessant demands of, "Ok but is this a really stupid idea??" at all hours and in all states of inebriety. 
> 
> It isn't Brit-picked though, as we're both from the wrong side of the pond, so if you spot anything, please let me know in the comments! 
> 
> And of course, any accurate/unchanged dialogue from the show was taken from the fantastic [**Ariane DeVere**](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/)'s transcripts. 
> 
> I love you all, and I hope you enjoy this completely crazy story :)

John watches as the cursor flashes tauntingly at the very top of the endless blank page. Ella had told him to write a blog, but despite her excellent credentials as an army therapist, he highly doubts it will help. He is even fairly sure she checks it every day to see if he’s done anything with it. 

He hasn’t.

The cursor keeps flashing.

Huffing an angry sigh, he very nearly slams his laptop shut and turns off the desk lamp. His army pension not affording him much luxury, he doesn’t have to limp very far to get to his bed. He lies down, stares directly at the bland, beige ceiling, turns off the lamp on his night stand and waits for the nightmares to claim him. 

***  
He awakens just before dawn, a shout dying on his lips, his hands frantically clutching at a soldier who is no longer there. He waits as the image of a nineteen-year-old dying beneath his fingers fades from his mind, panting hard and willing the tears streaming from his eyes to stop. 

His years as an army doctor had been the most exhilarating years of his life. Despite the bloody, violent reality of Afghanistan, he had never had a single nightmare while over there; everything had been amazing, really, until the day he was shot in the left shoulder. 

Now, all he has to show for his years of glory are a large mass of scar tissue in his shoulder, a jerky hand, and an imaginary limp. 

He drags himself out of bed, pointedly ignoring his cane as he limps towards the tiny kitchenette to make himself a cup of tea. He eats an apple for breakfast, seeing as his tiny pension doesn’t really allow him to buy much more than that _and_ live in London, then goes back to sit at the desk with his steaming mug. 

He carefully cracks open the computer, booting it up as he munches on his apple. His hand has finally stopped shaking, and he uses it to open up his blog again, the stupid cursor immediately reappearing and flashing obnoxiously. 

He takes a deep breath, his anger coming back nearly full force almost immediately. He shoves it down, then very deliberately types out, _Nothing_. 

He viciously hits _Post_.

***  
Dressed and shaved, he finally heads for the door. His current unemployed status irks him; he’s applied to every clinic he can find, but none have job openings at the moment. Rather than sit in his tiny bedsit and throw things, (as he’d done the first three weeks he’d been invalided home) he now takes long walks through the streets of London while waiting for the rejection emails to come. 

Every time he leaves, however, he’s faced with another challenge: his cane. Using the cane is admitting defeat. It’s admitting that he’s actually crazy, because there is absolutely no damage to his leg. He eyes it warily from across the room.

Rather than go directly for the cane, he bypasses it and opens the drawer right above the one it’s resting against on the desk. He shuffles some papers around until he finally glimpses the metallic sheen of his (illegal) service weapon, fully loaded. Staring at it has become a daily routine for him, now. A voice in the back of his head that has gotten progressively quieter since his return whispers, _Maybe this isn’t such a good idea_. He pushes it even further back.

All he would have to do is take the safety off…

He slams the drawer shut, grabs his cane, and gets down the stairs as fast as he can.

Outside, the sun is just coming out from behind the clouds, and he stops for a moment to catch his breath. 

He needs a job. He needs to do _something_ , before he actually goes insane. Walking through the park every day can only get one so far, and is an incredibly far cry from the usefulness and belonging he felt in Afghanistan, with the scorching sun beating down on him as he stitched his friends back together. 

He’s so deep in thought that it takes nearly a full minute before he realizes that someone is calling him. 

“John! John Watson!”

He whirls around, cane forgotten (it’s all in his head, after all), to find himself face to face with an overweight middle-aged man with glasses. The man smiles brightly, and John is at a loss. 

“Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together!” the man tells him, his smile not fading one bit, and John finally sees him, the skinny kid who used to sit next to him in his anatomy lectures, making the odd comment about how the muscles looked like corned beef. He transfers the cane so he can offer his hand.

“Yes, sorry, yes! Mike! Hello,” he blurts out awkwardly. Mike barely notices, just carries on talking, and John realizes that despite his very different exterior, he really hasn’t changed at all.

“Yeah, I know, I got fat!” Mike jokes, and John tries to at least throw out a convincing, “No,” before Mike continues.

“I heard you were abroad getting shot at! What happened?”

John looks awkwardly down at the cane and his trembling hand, then back up at Mike, trying to keep his back straight. “I got shot,” he says evenly, and even Mike manages to look abashed at that. 

Despite this, they somehow end up getting coffee together, and the nearly-as-awkward issue of money comes up. John manages to detail his situation with the bedsit without cringing more than three times.

“Couldn’t Harry help?” Mike asks, and John barks out a dry laugh. Mike nods, then looks thoughtfully out into the distance. John waits; if he’s being honest with himself, he’s grateful for the temporary silence.

Mike turns to him and gives him a careful, considering look. “I might have something for you,” he says, and John can see that he probably isn’t going to like Mike’s “something”. Before he can even open his mouth, Mike holds up a hand, effectively silencing him.

“Hear me out. I know you’ve been looking at jobs that fit the ‘Doctor’ part of your ‘army doctor’ title, but have you thought about looking for more… ‘Army’ jobs?”

John looks at him blankly. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Let me try to be clearer. You have combat experience, yeah?” 

John nods. “Of course.”

“I have a friend in charge of security who needs a new employee. There’s been a job opening for someone with… combat experience. At the Natural History Museum,” Mike finally says. John groans.

“Mike, for the love of Christ, are you telling me you can get me a job as a security guard at the Natural History Museum? I’ve got a bloody limp!” 

He’s fuming. He snatches up his cane, preparing to stand, but Mike’s hand shoots out and grabs his arm. 

“Wait! They really, really need someone, and I know you, John Watson, I know a bloody cane isn’t going to stop you from getting what you want!” he protests. “It’s the night shift—.”

John groans again, and Mike’s hand tightens.

“But there are rumours! Apparently the museum isn’t quite what it seems at night! It could be interesting!” Mike cries. “Every single night watchman they’ve had got fired because he moved things around during his shift, but I’m still not sure how they can explain someone moving all of the dinosaur skeletons, every single one, into the upstairs volcano exhibit!”

John slowly sinks back onto the bench and puts his face in his hands. His phone pings. 

Email.

“I know this is hard, but honestly, John. Have you got anything else on?” Mike asks quietly as John unlocks his phone.

_Dear Dr. Watson,_

_We regret to inform you that_ —

“You know what Mike?” he says, deleting the email with a swipe of his thumb and pocketing the phone again. “I haven’t got anything else on.”

“Brilliant,” says Mike, and he stands, waiting patiently for John to pick up his cane and follow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The_ T. Rex _doesn’t like it when the lights are off, didn’t those morons in security explain that to you before they left you alone in here like a bull in a china shop!?” the young man is demanding, his black, curly hair whipping around in the air as he gestures wildly with his hands._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit gets real

As they walk from South Kensington Station to Cromwell Road, John finally lets his curiosity get the better of him. He turns to Mike.

“So who am I meeting, exactly?” he asks.

Mike looks uncharacteristically lost in thought, and jolts a little at the reminder of John’s presence alongside him. 

“Her name is Sarah Sawyer, she’s been head of security at the museum for the past five years. She’ll probably want to interview you, but I honestly don’t think it’s going to be much more than a formality,” he responds once he’s recovered. When John’s brow furrows in confusion, he clarifies. 

“She’s had a lot of trouble finding people for this post as the years go on. I don’t think you’ll be up against much competition.”

John thinks this over as the posh houses of Cromwell Road get closer and closer and just like that, they’re pushing open the door of the museum.

***  
Mike had called ahead, but now he rushes up the staircase at the back of the entrance hall, calling, “I’ll be right back, John!” over his shoulder. 

Alone with the _Diplodocus_ skeleton, John wanders through the hall, making himself see it from a security point of view. As he waits, he makes a game out of determining where he’d have to hide in order not to be seen in the entrance hall: which pillars to duck behind, how shielded he would be if he crouched behind the _Diplodocus_ ’s stand on this side or that. It takes a moment for him to realize that Mike has returned with Sarah, and he blushes at being caught out. 

Sarah extends her hand with a friendly, amused smile. Her light brown hair is tied in a no-nonsense ponytail, and while her clothes are professional-looking, John can tell she would have absolutely no problem moving quickly in them. She has the look of someone who knows what they’re doing, and John has no trouble respecting that. He shakes her hand, his own smile more sheepish than friendly. 

“John! Mike’s just told me all about you,” she says, her smile unwavering. “I’m afraid you’re a bit… overqualified. He’s told me you’re a doctor!” 

John’s smile becomes a little strained. “And a soldier,” he replies. There’s a slightly uncomfortable pause where she eyes the cane, then him. 

“Are you sure? Might be a little mundane for you,” she finally says. 

“I—Mundane is good, sometimes. Mundane works,” he blurts out. It comes out just as desperate as he’d been trying to avoid sounding. He cringes. 

“Anything else you can do?”

“I learned the clarinet at school,” he says, pasting a self-deprecating smile on his face to try to ease the tension.

It works. Everyone laughs a little uneasily, but it’s a laugh all the same. 

“All right, well I suppose I’ll have to show you around, then!” she says brightly, and motions to John to follow. Mike looks between them, gives John an overly-exaggerated, saucy wink, then eases his way backwards out the door again before John can even think to give him the two-fingered salute. 

***  
As Sarah shows him up the stairs, John can’t help thinking that this isn’t going to be mundane in the least. The architecture of the building, for one, is absolutely magnificent, and he catches himself stopping to look through arches and around pillars more than once, rushing to catch up with Sarah as soon as he notices himself doing it. 

“—The Blue Zone,” Sarah is saying when he finally catches up to her. She grins at him. “Never been here before, have you?”

“I was once, when I was a kid. I really don’t remember much,” he admits. 

“Don’t worry about it, within a few nights you’ll know the lay of the land,” she says, and they keep walking, John controlling himself and not approaching every dinosaur skeleton they pass along the way. When they enter the back room of the Blue Zone, however, he can’t stop himself from openly gaping at the orcas and blue whales hanging from the ceiling, looking for all the world as though you could toss them in a pool and they would be perfectly all right. 

Sarah is openly laughing, now, and he looks down to see that he’s just stopped in front of a sign that says _Compare your brain to a blue whale’s!_ He smiles. 

“That… is not what I’d meant to stop in front of,” he laughs, and they continue on, John gaping at everything and sometimes stopping to keep up with Sarah’s narration. 

Eventually, they make it all the way back across the Blue Zone and up the main stairs. John stops in front of a closed door, curious. Sarah stops behind him.

“That’s a gallery we call The Vault,” she explains. “It’s not open right now because we’re in the middle of renovating it, but in a few months it’ll be open to the public again. You don’t have to worry about that room, it’s got one of the most state-of-the-art security systems in the world.”

She turns and points out a camera that has abruptly swivelled towards them. “There are more around here, obviously, but there are cameras all over the museum, and you can watch their footage from the security room,” she explains, before looking around again and lowering her voice. “That said, it makes for a _lot_ of footage. No one’s around at night but you, so we don’t usually review it unless you report something strange.”

She drags John back through the top of the Green Zone, back down the stairs, and into the final zone of the tour: the Red Zone. They take the massive escalator in the middle of the ground floor so they can start at the very top. 

“John, this is—.”

John looks up, wondering why she’s stopped talking, and finds her smiling exasperatedly at him. 

“John, you realize that tonight, you’ll be here while absolutely no one else is around to bother you, and you’ll be able to look at all of the galleries at your leisure, right?”

In fact, John _hadn’t_ realized that, and he blushes at his oversight. “I—sorry. Sorry. Please continue.”

Sarah laughs, then goes on to explain the Volcanoes exhibit, moving towards the Restless Surfaces one as she talks. Before John knows it, they’re back downstairs, crossing through a gallery full of menacing-looking Neanderthal men, and going into a smaller back gallery. 

“And _this_ ,” Sarah says, “Is our oldest gallery. It was set up in 1895, very soon after the museum opened. We’re awfully proud of it, but unfortunately the tourism back here has been declining quite a bit. We tried updating it, dressing some of the statues in more modern clothing, adding forensic pathologists and the like—,” she explains sadly as John examines a statue of a tall, friendly-looking, grey-haired DI, “but it doesn’t seem to be working. There are even some cases in the back that we haven’t bothered dusting off in _ages_ , but we just can’t bring ourselves to part with this exhibit.”

John nods as she speaks, then follows her back out of the gallery, passing a mousy-looking pathologist on the way. As they leave, he turns to read the title on the top of the door: _Crime Through the Ages_. 

They head back into Sarah’s office, go over his contract (John pretends not to be fazed by the only bolded clause, _**EVERYTHING MUST BE IN ITS RIGHTFUL PLACE WHEN THE SUN RISES**_ ), and then John heads home to change and get ready. 

***  
At night, the beautiful stone walls and stained-glass windows transform to become ominous and dark. John stands outside for nearly a full minute, steeling himself before finally going in to meet Sarah in the entrance hall.

“All right, so you’re all set? Here are your keys,” she says, handing him a very large fob which he clips into his belt, “And your torch, and free rein over this museum!”

She smiles widely, shakes his hand, says, “Remember, your only job is not to let anything in, _or out_ , of this museum tonight,” and is gone before he can fully process that sentence.

The door shuts with a dramatic bang, and he is left alone in the entrance hall with the _Diplodocus_ once more. 

***  
He starts by walking up and down the whale gallery once, watching the orcas float above him, before finally realizing that he’s really quite tired and should go take a look at the monitors. He hadn’t been prepared to stay up all night, and he promises himself he’ll take a better look around once he’s acclimated to the strange schedule. 

He closes the door to the security room and settles into the chair, watching all of the monitors light up around him. Absolutely nothing is happening, as expected, and he doesn’t even notice when he dozes off in his chair. 

***  
BANG. 

 

BANG.

 

BANG.

John wakes with a jolt, the chair nearly sliding out from under him. Wrenching himself out of it, he grabs his torch and rushes out of the room, wishing he’d thought to bring his gun with him. His small beam of light swinging wildly in the dark of the museum, he sprints through the entrance hall, anxiously following the banging sound, then stops abruptly.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he walks back towards the entrance hall, trying to convince himself that he’s finally lost his mind, because the alternative to that thought is just too much to stomach. He inches back towards it, slides his hands around a pillar to steady himself, and finally takes a second look.

The _Diplodocus_ is gone. 

He quickly turns back around the pillar, his heart hammering in his chest, rising into his throat. He can’t have just seen…

He takes a deep breath, then looks again. 

The _Diplodocus_ is still gone.

An empty pedestal stands in the middle of the entrance hall, the donation box in front of it completely untouched. He walks towards it as if in a dream. He leans down to run his hand across the suddenly empty stand, and that’s when he hears it again, nearly making him jump out of his skin.

BANG. 

 

BANG. 

 

BANG. 

 

BANG.

Pushing the missing _Diplodocus_ from his mind, he sprints towards the Blue Zone, where the sound is coming from. He nearly faints at the sight of the gallery on his left. 

“No, no, no, that’s not how you’ll get them back in their places!” shouts an arrogant voice to his right. He whips around, his head frantically trying to wrap itself around what he’s just seen, and finally spots a man a few years younger than him gesturing at him frantically. 

He doesn’t even think; when the man starts running, he runs after him. 

“The _T. Rex_ doesn’t like it when the lights are off, didn’t those morons in security explain that to you before they left you alone in here like a bull in a china shop!?” the young man is demanding, his black, curly hair whipping around in the air as he gestures wildly with his hands. John is too out of breath to answer, and is still so shocked at the sight of a _T. Rex_ skeleton rushing around a too-small gallery while five Neanderthal men shout in glee from the corner that he doesn’t realize where they’re going until they’ve arrived in the security office. 

The younger man is now reaching up and flicking all of the switches on, his perfectly-tailored charcoal black suit clinging to his sides and thighs as he stretches to reach the higher ones. John licks his lips just as he turns around to say something, and the words seem to die on the other man’s lips. John blushes and clears his throat, and it seems to break the spell.

“I—I was going to tell you that I’m not going to ask you for help with the switches because, well…” he trails off as he eyes John, and John realizes he’s just made a height joke. 

“Oh, ha ha, thank you for the warm welcome on my first day on the job,” John says, rolling his eyes. 

“Night.”

“…What?”

“First night on the job, technically. Why do you think the others kept getting dismissed for moving things around in the night?”

It finally clicks, and John opens his mouth in surprise just as another BANG resounds outside. 

“That’ll be the _T. Rex_ back in its gallery,” says the other man, wiping his hands on his incredibly tight pants. John watches his hands as they stroke past his thighs, then looks up to find light grey eyes watching him warily.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, that wasn’t on, I’m so sorry,” he stutters, but his saviour just holds up a hand in response. 

“Come on, we’ve got to find the _Diplodocus_ the _T. Rex_ scared off. If you could even _begin_ to understand the sheer quantity of my research time you’re wasting right now,” he says, and is out of the room before John can apologize again.

***  
That night, John learns several things. 

He learns that the _Diplodocus_ and the _T. Rex_ _really_ don’t get along, but that if he leaves the lights on, both will only roam their respective areas and never get in each other’s way. 

He learns that the Neanderthals really like fire, but that if they’re given fire, they will likely burn down the whole of London. 

He learns that the doors with the “State-of-the-art” security actually _do_ hold up against most attacks, including several birds flying at it in waves while John frantically yells at them to stop and his curly-haired companion howls with laughter.

He learns that his curly-haired companion is a researcher from the nearby Imperial College London and is studying some of the artifacts for his PhD. His name is Sherlock Holmes, and he finds other people so dull that he elects to do all of his research in the dead of night in order not to run into them.

And he learns that he may, just _may_ , be incredibly attracted to him.

***  
They’re just locking the last of the birds back into their cases when Sherlock puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“The sun will be up soon,” he says, raising an eyebrow pointedly. 

“Oh! Have we got everything back in place?” John asks him, feeling a little frantic. This job had not been at all what he’d been expecting, after all. 

Sherlock’s eyebrow raises even further. “You _do_ realize that this is technically _your_ job, and that you should be the one keeping track of these things?”

John feels a grin spread across his face and realizes he hasn’t had this much fun in a long, long time. 

“Yeah, well…” He spreads his hands helplessly, and Sherlock smiles, too.

“Yes, John. Everything is in place, you can go home,” he says, and there’s a slight catch to his voice when he says it. John leaps at his chance.

“At least let me walk you back to… Wherever you’re doing your research!”

Sherlock looks him up and down, then hesitantly nods. “All right. My office is in the Red Zone, actually.”

Together, they walk across the Green Zone and back into the Red Zone, towards the tiny back gallery. He hears hushed voices inside. 

“…But where would he go? He usually spends most of the night with us—,” starts a woman’s voice, but a man’s voice quickly interrupts her.

“Shhh that’s him, he’s coming—.”

“Yes, good morning, Lestrade, Molly,” Sherlock says, sweeping dramatically into the room.

“Sherlock! Where were you all night?” Molly asks. “Greg and I thought you’d be spending the night—.”

“And this is my new friend John!” Sherlock shouts over her, gesturing at John. “He’s the new night watchman, we’ll be seeing rather a lot of him from now on.”

John waves awkwardly. 

“John, this is Molly, the forensic pathologist,” Molly waves even more awkwardly than him, “And this is George Lestrade, the DI.”

“It’s Greg, Jesus, Sherlock,” the grey-haired DI says, shaking his head and pointing at the sign in front of his pedestal. “Lovely to meet you, John, but we’d best get back to what we’re supposed to be doing.”

He stands on his pedestal as if in preparation for a big event. Molly takes up her position behind the autopsy table. Sherlock turns to him. 

“I’ve got to go get something from my office in the back to make up for all of the time you’ve made me waste, but I suppose we’ll see each other tomorrow night when I have to rescue you again. Good morning, John,” he says, then puts his hand out. 

“Good morning, Sherlock,” John laughs, shaking his hand, and that’s when Sherlock grips it more tightly and pulls him towards him. 

“I do believe you’ve forgotten something, army doctor,” he says, and then he’s gone, leaving John alone to wonder what the hell he was talking about. He looks up at Lestrade, who shrugs just once before giving him an apologetic look and going completely rigid. Startled, John looks over at Molly and sees that she’s gone rigid, too, and it finally hits him that they’ve turned back into the statues he’d seen earlier that day. 

He walks back towards the security office, shaking his head at the sheer insanity of his current situation, and that’s when he spots what Sherlock was talking about: his cane, still leaning against the desk where he’d left it hours ago. 

He hadn’t even realized he’d forgotten it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You can’t really do that, can you? ‘Deduce’ everyone that way?” John makes sure to emphasize the air quotes around_ deduce _. Sherlock’s face falls almost imperceptibly._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Of course I can, don’t be daft. Why would I write that if I couldn’t?” Sherlock replies, indignant._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Loads of people write bullshit on the internet.”_
> 
>  
> 
>  _“I am not_ loads of people.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look, another randomly timed update. I promise I actually am trying to stick with the schedule... :(

John wakes up around half one, his body having decided that six hours of sleep after last night’s complete insanity is enough. He slowly rises, feeling all of his joints creak as he stretches his arms high above his head, then heads into his kitchenette to make himself a much-needed cup of coffee. 

As he sits with his newspaper and mug, he thinks over the events of last night. Strangely enough, it isn’t the entire museum coming to life at night that occupies his thoughts; it’s the researcher, Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock Holmes, who looks like _that_ but apparently hates people enough that he prefers to do his research under the cover of darkness. Come to think of it, John hadn’t even taken the time to ask him which artifacts he was studying; he would have to ask tonight. His curiosity awoken, he wishes there was a faster way to find out.

As he munches his apple, the answer finally hits him. He could Google it! He’s got a laptop, after all. He settles at the desk with his apple as the computer boots up, trying to banish all images of a slim figure in a tightly-cut suit from his mind. 

Instead, he settles on Sherlock’s parting words. _Army doctor_. How had he known? It might have been a logical guess to think he’d been in the army, based on the way he runs or responds to things, but doctor? Sherlock hadn’t seen him do anything medical last night, so how had he figured that one out? 

When his pondering leads him nowhere, he finally focuses back on the screen and types _Sherlock Holmes_ into the search bar. The first hit is a blog called _The Science of Deduction_. 

He spends the next two hours browsing through the blog, his eyebrows rising further and further into his hairline with each passing sentence. Apparently, Sherlock can identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb; John can’t help but feel incredibly skeptical.

Just when he fears his eyebrows will permanently merge with his slightly-greying hair, he comes across the cherry on top of the sundae: an analysis of two hundred and forty three types of tobacco ash. He nearly chokes on his bite of apple. 

The man is clearly delusional. 

Which brings him right back around to: this job is clearly impossible. 

John sits back in his chair, the true nature of his situation hitting him at last. He’s an ex-army doctor working as a night watchman at a museum where everything _comes to life at night_. He chokes out a laugh that has nothing to do with humour. 

Should he go back? He had fun, yes, but he _definitely_ did not sign up for chasing the skeleton of a _T. Rex_ around a museum while being jeered at by Neanderthals and dive-bombed by tropical birds. It’s now abundantly clear why no one else had wanted this post. 

He should call Sarah and quit. She’s a lovely woman, and she was very kind to offer him this opportunity, but this is so far from what he had expected that he’s fairly sure he can’t do it. 

He scrubs his hands through his hair, feeling conflicted, and just as he reaches for the mouse to close the browser (and _The Science of Deduction_ and its ridiculous quantities of tobacco ash), he spots an unclicked tab on the blog. 

_Case files._

He has time before he has to call Sarah and explain his situation, so hell, why not let himself indulge a little bit more in the bat-shit-crazy-yet-insanely-hot researcher?

He clicks.

He is intrigued. 

He looks out the window just before sunset, curses, and dresses for work.

***  
This time, he makes sure to leave every light in the museum on; he doesn’t need a repeat of last night’s stampeding _T. Rex_ incident. Then, he stands in the middle of the entrance hall and waits. 

He’s yawning by the time the _Diplodocus_ finally starts to twitch its toes. He watches, awestruck, as it dips its great head, long neck arching gracefully, and stops with its empty orbits boring straight into his eyes. He stands absolutely still as the giant skull rubs up and down his torso, as though smelling him with a no-longer-existent olfactory system, then bumps at his hand. He’s still stroking at the long-dead snout, mouth slightly open in fascination, when Sherlock finally enters the hall.

“Ah, you left the lights on, you learn much more quickly than the last one!” is what he says in lieu of greeting. The _Diplodocus_ interrupts John’s petting and turns to face Sherlock, a look very much resembling disdain on its features. Sherlock looks momentarily floored, and John snorts very loudly. 

“All right, fine, yes, well done and all that,” Sherlock says awkwardly, then stops as the silence descends on them. Luckily, John has brought an icebreaker with him. He holds out his phone, blog open, and Sherlock takes it, looking confused.

“I looked you up on the internet last night,” he says. 

John isn’t quite sure what reaction he was expecting, but it definitely isn’t all of the colour draining from Sherlock’s face and something vaguely reminiscent of horror etching itself into his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, but only a squeak comes out. He clears his throat and tries again. He quickly hands back the phone.

“Anything interesting?” he says faintly. 

“Sherlock? Are you okay?”

Sherlock gives him a long look, then seems to snap out of it. “Yes—Yes, I’m. I’m fine. Anything interesting?” he repeats, this time with more confidence. 

John decides to let this one slide. “I found your website. _The Science of Deduction._ ”

“What did you think?” Sherlock asks, and suddenly all of his horror seems to be replaced by pride. It almost hurts John to say the next words.

“You can’t really do that, can you? ‘Deduce’ everyone that way?” John makes sure to emphasize the air quotes around _deduce_. Sherlock’s face falls almost imperceptibly. 

“Of course I can, don’t be daft. Why would I write that if I couldn’t?” Sherlock replies, indignant. 

“Loads of people write bullshit on the internet.”

“I am not _loads of people._ ” He almost spits the words, and John knows enough about people to realize that this would be a good time to back off. 

“All right. What about the cases? Do you solve all of them from your website?” 

At the mention of the cases, Sherlock perks up immediately. “Yes! I started the website a few years ago, when I first got a smart phone, and ever since then I’ve been helping people solve cases. Sometimes even the Met contact me,” he says with pride. 

Just as John is about to question him further, they hear a loud screech coming from the Green Zone, and John wants to bang his head against the wall in frustration. He’d remembered to leave the lights on, but he’d forgotten to lock the bird cages! 

Sherlock gives him a withering look, and then they’re off to try and catch the birds, before one of them ends up wedged in the loo in the morning. 

***  
Two hours of breathless running later, he and Sherlock are sitting, shoulders touching, against the desk in the security room. 

John has never laughed this hard in his life.

“That… That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever done,” he gasps, his hands coming up to hold his aching chest. 

“And you invaded Afghanistan!” Sherlock gasps back, and they keep laughing for another thirty seconds before John registers what Sherlock’s just said. 

He turns towards him, slowly. “How could you _possibly_ know that!?”

He starts to wonder if Sherlock had looked him up on the internet, too, but he also knows for a fact that Sherlock wouldn’t have found him anyway. 

Sherlock seems to realize he’s just made John uncomfortable, and starts to inch away. “Sorry, it just… Gets away from me sometimes. I knew you didn’t like that, I shouldn’t have…”

He turns away, murmuring _Stupid_ under his breath. He starts to rise, but John, still not quite sure what’s possessed him, sticks out his hand and pulls him back down. 

“No, wait! Stay,” he says. Sherlock still looks wary. 

“Was that… the deduction thing? Like the way you can identify an airline pilot by his left thumb?” he says tentatively.

Sherlock’s face lights up, as though he can’t actually believe that someone’s read his blog. 

“Yes. I simply observe, and relay my observations. Anyone could do it, if they would just _look_ ,” he says, and John can feel that there’s some sort of centuries-old exasperation in his words. He laughs. 

“All right then, fine. What can you tell me about me?”

Sherlock stops, his enthusiasm gone. “You don’t like it when I do that.”

“You’ve never done it in front of me before. Not on purpose, anyway. How would you know?” he says, confused.

“I—Are you sure you want me to?”

John laughs. “Yes, yes, do it, come on!”

Sherlock gives him a long look, up and down, and is silent for so long that John starts to wonder if he’s ever going to do it. 

After what seems like an eternity, Sherlock finally opens his mouth. 

“You’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. You’ve got a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help, possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. Your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite rightly I’m afraid, but you already knew that.” 

He stops, completely frozen, and watches John, who is staring back at him, mouth open in shock.

“How did you… How did you figure all that out!?”

Sherlock still looks wary; if anything he looks even more nervous than before. “Do you really want to know?” 

“Yes! That was incredible!” 

Sherlock is now the one looking at _John_ in open shock, but he explains anyway.

“Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. However, when that _T. Rex_ came at you last night, the first things you examined were its weak spots, with what I would consider above-average knowledge of anatomy. A bit of a shot in the dark there, but when I said _army doctor_ last night, you didn’t correct me, so I was right. Then, your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp was really bad when you arrived, but you never asked for a chair when you stood, as though you’d forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action—Afghanistan or Iraq. Our more active campaign is in Afghanistan, so I made the logical assumption, and again, was not corrected.”

John looks at him in a whole new light. What he had thought was just insane nonsense written on a madman’s blog is turning out to be much more real than he could ever have imagined. 

And he wants more.

“How’d you know about my brother, then?”

“Your phone.” He holds his hand out for it, and John pulls it out and hands it to him. “It’s expensive, all of the features are there, but you were so desperate for a job you became a night watchman at the Natural History Museum. You wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift, then.”

He turns over the phone and points out the charger port. “Scuff marks. Every night your brother goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; you never see a drunk’s without them.”

He turns the phone over again, and John can see the last piece of evidence he was going to point out. “The engraving! Of course!” 

_Harry Watson  
From Clara_

Xxx

Sherlock smiles at him knowingly, but there’s something wrong with his eyes. John pushes it out of his mind.

“That… Was amazing,” he finally says, staring at Sherlock in awe.

Sherlock’s mouth opens and closes several times. Whatever was wrong with his eyes has vanished.

“Do… Do you think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary,” John can’t help but gush. 

Sherlock’s eyes light up, bright and mischievous.

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off!”

John laughs, but something inside him twists. This man _is_ extraordinary, there’s no other word for it, and apparently, countless people have tried to crush it out of him. The twisting turns into a faint simmer of rage. No wonder he avoids people as much as possible.

“D’you wanna tell me how you solve the cases, then?”

Sherlock’s smile is contagious.

***  
They’re just looking through one of the newer cases, Sherlock deducing everything about the client before even beginning on the case as John looks on in fascination, when John finally notices what time it is. 

“Shit. We’ve got to go make sure all the animals are back in the right place,” he tells Sherlock, who nods, looking rather worriedly at the window. 

They make their way back out of the security room and look around, but by some miracle, nothing seems to have gotten too out of control while they were otherwise occupied. The _Diplodocus_ gracefully inclines its head as John passes, and John nods back, surprised at the acknowledgement. He vows to get to know more of the animals as soon as possible. 

The birds are still in their cages, but as it turns out, three of the lizards have somehow gotten on the top of a shelf, leading to Sherlock fetching them while mocking John’s height yet again, but this time, John finds it strangely endearing. 

The rest of the night passes in a blur, until they’re back in front of the _Crime Through the Ages_ exhibit. Molly and Greg are deep in conversation when they walk in. 

“Sherlock! Molly was just wondering if she could have a look at the body for the Smith case again,” Greg says when they walk in. John checks the time; they still have a good twenty minutes before Greg and Molly disappear. 

Sherlock gleefully pulls out his phone and brandishes it under Molly’s nose. She sighs and snatches it from him, quickly scrolling through the photos. 

“Hmm… Those are definitely track marks, Sherlock, we’ll have to take a better look tomorrow night,” she says. Sherlock huffs in annoyance, but seems to trust her judgement. 

“She’s right, you know,” Greg adds. “You’d never have enough evidence to convict him based only on your deductions.” 

“I know, Geoff, I know! That’s why I consulted Molly in the first place!”

They bicker for a while, and before they know it, it’s time for Greg and Molly to get back into position. Just as John is about to let Sherlock return to his office, Sherlock comes rushing back out of the gallery.

“Did I get anything wrong!?” he demands.

It takes John a moment to catch on. “Harry and me don’t get on; never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago, and they’re getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker.”

“Spot on, then. I didn’t expect to be right about everything,” Sherlock says, preening.

John grins wickedly. “And Harry’s short for Harriet.”

He rushes down the stairs to the sound of Sherlock’s frustrated groan.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Listen, John, I like you, but I can’t answer these questions for him. He’ll tell you at his own pace,” Greg says, then goes to stand on his pedestal, effectively ending the conversation by turning back into a statue._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK LOOK IT'S ON THE DAY THAT I PROMISED I am so proud

Despite the wonderful night he’s just had, John finds that sleep doesn’t come easily. 

Sherlock’s abilities are incredible, and Sherlock himself is nothing to sneeze at, either. What really bothers John, however, is how badly Sherlock has clearly been treated in the past. He’s never seen someone so happy to receive such a simple bit of praise, and it’s enough to make his heart ache. Sherlock is a brilliant, clever, _funny_ human being, and apparently, no one has ever let him know. 

Which, of course, leads him to his dilemma. As the person who has finally let Sherlock know.

He’s attracted to Sherlock. There’s absolutely no denying the fact that Sherlock’s beautiful, ethereal eyes haunt his every waking moment. He thinks of the man nearly constantly, but how would Sherlock react if John asked him out?

It definitely wouldn’t count as dating a co-worker. While they may work in the same building, they do completely different things, and don’t even work for the same people. John is employed by the museum itself; Sherlock is employed by Imperial College’s history department and solves crimes in his free time. From an ethical point of view, John’s fairly sure he’s in the clear.

The only thing he’s hesitant about is what this could do to their budding friendship. He’s just started getting to know Sherlock; if asking him out ruins this…

But no. Even then, Sherlock has caught him out staring _multiple_ times. He must at least have an inkling of what might be to come.

Tired of trying to convince himself not to, John falls asleep resolved to ask Sherlock out during his shift that night.

He has never slept this peacefully.

***  
“What do you mean, ‘He’s on a case?’” John manages to get out. He’s running up and down the bird cases, frantically locking them as the birds protest loudly. He’d nearly forgotten again, and while he had fun the previous night, he wasn’t especially keen on chasing birds for two straight hours again. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” he mutters to a pair of colourful parrots. 

“LAUGH IT UP!” one shouts back at him, and he nearly falls backwards in shock. Both parrots start cackling madly.

John knows he won’t be sticking around to get to know the birds very much. He looks expectantly at Greg, who is standing in the doorway of the gallery, looking vaguely amused. 

“The body he was looking at last night? He and Molly are working very hard on it and he asked not to be disturbed. She’ll probably be down later; he’ll want the whole gallery to himself, the posh git,” he explains. 

John’s disappointment must be showing in his face, because Greg’s features soften. “Hey. Don’t worry about it, he does this kind of thing a _lot_.”

“Yeah, well…” John replies, not sure what else to say. He ducks his head, hoping he isn’t being too obvious. 

Greg looks slightly uncomfortable, so apparently John is just obvious enough. Greg clears his throat. “Listen… I know we don’t know each other that well, but I just wanted to tell you that, well. Sherlock doesn’t really date, mate.”

John’s heart plummets a little. “Do you… know why?” He tries not to sound too desperate.

“I’ve known him a long time, but no, I don’t know why. And besides,” Greg cocks an admonishing eyebrow, “If I did, what kind of friend would I be if I told _you_?”

John has to admit he’s right. “A pretty awful one,” he laughs. Greg beams back at him.

“Come on, if the _T. Rex_ is in a good mood he’ll let you hang out with the _Triceratops_ ,” Greg says, and they head back towards the Blue Zone. 

“So has Sherlock worked here long?” John asks as they enter the entrance hall. The _Diplodocus_ inclines its head as they pass, and John stops to pet it. 

“We’ve known each other for a few years; I opened my eyes one night and there he was, but he was still getting his bearings. As odd as that sounds,” Greg says distractedly, clearly still thinking that John is prying. John can sense when it’s time to change topics. He releases the dinosaur’s head and turns to Greg.

“Can I ask you a weird question?”

Greg looks him up and down, then nods. “Okay, yeah.” 

“How did you…” John begins, but finds he has no idea how to ask this. He decides that being blunt is the only way to do it. “You’re a statue, but we’re talking right now. How is this possible? In the least rude way, of course.”

Greg chuckles. “Can you wait to see the _Triceratops_? It’s a little long to explain and it’s probably easier if you see it for yourself.”

“Yeah, absolutely. We’ve got all night,” John says. 

He gives a farewell pat to the bony snout resting on his shoulder, then follows Greg up the main stairs in the back. 

All around them, the museum teems with activity. Even this far away, he can still hear the birds screeching in protest at being locked in their cases, and every now and then he spots a Neanderthal sprinting by. From the top of the stairs, he can hear a volcano rumbling in the distance. 

“Right, well, here we are,” says Greg, standing in front of the locked door of The Vault. 

“We can’t go in there; I haven’t got the…”

Greg enters a code into the keypad next to the door and it unlocks with a loud click.

“Code,” John finishes lamely. “How come you can open it but I can’t?”

“Sherlock gave Molly and me the code in case he gets too caught up in his research in here and needs to be forcibly removed,” Greg says. John isn’t quite sure if he’s joking or not. 

“So Sherlock does his research in here?”

Greg fumbles around on one of the walls until there’s an audible click, then a hum as all of the lights turn on in the gallery. The door shuts behind them with a bang. 

The Vault is very dusty. The renovations seem to be well under way, several of the sections looking brand new and polished, while the older sections all show the same signs of disuse. Greg leads him down the larger hallway, all the way to the end. He turns to John as he walks.

“Sherlock is doing research on the Tablet of Ahkmenrah,” he says, gesturing to the least dusty glass case in the back. John steps forward to get a closer look.

The tablet is made of gold, that much is obvious from the start. There’s a large piece broken off the very top, and the left corner is missing. Enclosed within the borders of the tablet are nine rotating tiles with various hieroglyphics engraved on them. 

“What do the symbols mean?” John asks.

Greg gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Haven’t the faintest. It’s not my research, it’s Sherlock’s, and it’s all pretty esoteric, so Molly and I don’t really get it.”

Greg lets John look his fill before launching into a longer explanation. 

“In 1892, a team from Cambridge University discovered the tomb of Ahkmenrah, who was said to be descended from the moon itself. They kept it in a very secure room within the university, seeing as it’s made of solid gold, but one night, it disappeared. 

“Then, in 1895, it turned up here, hidden somewhere in the archives. No one knows how or why; all I know is that on January 29th, 1895, I woke up—.”

John does a double take. “You’ve been here since _1895_!?”

“Statues don’t age, John,” Greg laughs. “But yeah, that’s the year they opened my exhibit. And it’s also the year that the museum started to come alive between sunset and sunrise. My outfit was pretty different at the time, this stuff’s just part of the modern refurbishment project they did a couple years back. And I didn’t have Molly, so it got pretty lonely.”

“Oh! Are you and Molly…?” John gestures vaguely. 

Greg laughs again. “No! Having all the time in the world to ask her out makes it really hard to do, actually.”

John smiles. “I think she’d say yes. I don’t know her that well, but I think she would.”

Greg grins widely. “D’you think so?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a crash from downstairs, and Greg puts his head in his hands. “How bout we go see about that _Triceratops_?”

***  
Luckily, by the time they reach the dinosaur gallery, the scene is largely over. The _Triceratops_ and _T. Rex_ are side-eyeing each other, but neither of them makes a move to leave their part of the room. John goes straight to the _Triceratops_ while Greg goes to calm the _T. Rex_. 

They spend the next hour or so petting and reassuring the two dinosaurs, eventually realizing how close to sunrise it is. As John walks Greg back to the _Crime_ gallery, he can’t resist asking one more question about Sherlock. 

“Hey, d’you know where Sherlock’s from, at least? His accent’s pretty posh,” John says, trying to cover his unhealthy curiosity with a feeble joke. 

Greg sees right through it, looking slightly uncomfortable.

“Listen, John, I like you, but I can’t answer these questions for him. He’ll tell you at his own pace,” Greg says, then goes to stand on his pedestal, effectively ending the conversation by turning back into a statue. John peeks around him just to make sure that Molly is also back in position, and sees her standing in her usual pose by the autopsy table. He’s a little disappointed that he didn’t get to say good morning to her. 

He’s very, very disappointed, however, that he never got to see his favourite researcher, and that in itself, he realizes, is pretty telling. 

He stands at the door of the gallery for several more minutes, thinking about Greg’s answers. Greg is clearly a good friend, never giving John any information that could be regarded as too personal (Greg doesn’t know John that well, after all, and has the instincts of a DI; he knows full well that John might be a crazy stalker and go confront Sherlock at his flat or something), but Greg seemed slightly uncomfortable about it. 

John shakes his head to clear it. 

Greg is right. If there’s something dark in Sherlock’s past, then it’s up to Sherlock to reveal it to him. It wouldn’t be fair for him to go behind his back. 

He walks to South Kensington Station slowly, the weight of his disappointment slowing him down.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“John? Lestrade said he thought he’d seen you go back here—,” comes a deep voice from behind him. The sudden stop at the end of the sentence leaves John wondering what the hell Sherlock has just deduced about this situation._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to... the explicit chapter ;)
> 
> (WHICH IS ALSO ON THE APPROPRIATE DAY I AM ON _FIRE_ )

John takes his time getting to work this time, the disappointment from the previous night still weighing heavily on him. He pushes the door open cautiously, as though expecting the animals to be awake already. A quick glance at the sunset behind him reveals that they still have a ways to go before he needs to be worried. 

He looks up at the _Diplodocus_ , eager for it to wake up and acknowledge him, then heads into the security office to check the monitors and turn on the lights. He glances around each of the galleries and zones, none of them showing any signs of life yet.

Checking his watch, he realizes he actually still has enough time to walk through one of the galleries if he goes to lock up the birds right now. With another glance at the monitors, he settles on something other than dinosaurs for once.

With the sun in its current position, the birds don’t put up much of a fight.

The walk to the middle gallery in the Blue Zone is an easy and interesting one, and the contents of the gallery are well worth it. He makes a brief stop in front of the duck-billed platypus, contemplating the reasons for this particular creature’s existence and evolution, then moves on to a case holding a kangaroo and her joey. They look almost longingly at him through the glass, the joey’s head poking out of its mother’s pouch to take in the world around it. 

He gets so preoccupied walking up and down the cases that he doesn’t notice he’s face to face with a slowly-waking _Diprotodon_ until he’s face to face with a fully-awake _Diprotodon_. It snuffles quietly, narrowing its eyes at him, and at first, John has no idea what he’s looking at. 

The animal is so large that its snout is level with John’s forehead, and it has to stoop to sniff properly at his clothing. It looks something like an enormous bear who’s snout got elongated halfway to an elephant’s trunk; John has never seen anything like it before. Ducking a little to get a look at the sign behind it (and figure out if he’s going to survive this encounter), he reads _Diprotodon, or ‘two forward teeth,’ is the largest known marsupial ever to have walked the Earth._

He blinks, then reads the sign again. A marsupial? 

His eyes widen incredulously; this creature is a far cry from a koala bear, and its snuffling is starting to morph into something vaguely like growling. John starts to back away slowly, holding his hands up in what he hopes is a non-threatening manner, but the _Diprotodon_ isn’t having it, its gigantic paws starting to look like they’re preparing to leap. 

John catches the threatening glint in its eye and swallows nervously. The door to the gallery is just to his—

“John? Lestrade said he thought he’d seen you go back here—,” comes a deep voice from behind him. The sudden stop at the end of the sentence leaves John wondering what the hell Sherlock has just deduced about this situation.

The answer comes quickly enough. 

“John. John— _Run!_ ” Sherlock shouts. John abruptly whirls 180 degrees and goes sprinting back towards the door of the gallery, hot on Sherlock’s footsteps. He catches up quickly, Sherlock’s heavy breathing right next to his ear as they make a frantic break for safety. Behind him, he hears the panting and stomping of a marsupial that is larger than a hippopotamus. 

“What did you do to it!?” Sherlock demands breathlessly as they run towards the stairs, the _Diplodocus_ turning its head curiously as they pass.

“Nothing, I swear!” John shouts back, already starting to become out of breath. “Where are we going!?”

Sherlock sounds like he doesn’t quite believe him, but still yells, “The Cadogan Gallery, follow me! The _Diprotodon_ is afraid of Guy!”

“Who’s Guy?!” cries John.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, just keeps running full tilt until they’ve reached the highest gallery in the Green Zone. Behind them, the snuffling and heavy footfalls abruptly stop, replaced by a sulky sound and retreating footsteps. John almost collides with Sherlock’s back inside the doorway. He steadies himself, then takes a look inside.

This gallery is very different from the other ones he’s visited so far. It’s nothing but a long hallway, with dark-coloured walls and stained-glass windows. A line of glass cases goes from one end to the other, full of various oddities, but none of them alive: collections of colourful, pinned butterflies and different sorts of shining rocks and minerals. The coloured light from the stained glass windows bathes the gallery in an ethereal mix of reds, blues and greens, glinting off the stones and forming strange patterns on the ceiling. Compared to the chaos in the other galleries, this one is eerily silent and peaceful.

“Who’s— Who’s Guy?” pants John, holding his knees for support. 

“A gorilla in a glass case. Don’t worry, he’s incredibly peaceful, he’s never even tried to leave his case before…” Sherlock starts to say, but John isn’t paying any attention, because Sherlock’s cheeks are stained a ruddy red, his eyes are shining madly, his hair is sticking up every which way, and John _wants_ him.

“Where’s the case?” John asks abruptly. 

Sherlock looks taken aback at being interrupted. “At the very end of the gallery,” he replies, frowning. 

“Good,” says John, and then he’s grabbing Sherlock by the lapels of his sinfully-tailored suit and kissing him hard on the mouth. 

Sherlock makes a surprised sound, but the instant he realizes what’s happening, he _moans_ and wraps his arms around John, pulling him as close as possible. John can feel Sherlock’s heart rate accelerate against his own chest when he takes Sherlock’s plush bottom lip between both of his own and runs his tongue across it, teasing him. He lets his tongue slip between Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock parts them on a gasp, a sound verging on obscene that echoes through the silent gallery. John groans, the sound going straight to his cock.

They kiss like that for a while, exploring each other, letting the adrenaline wash over them in waves. Sherlock is so _responsive_ , his moans and whimpers like music to John’s ears. John sucks gently on Sherlock’s tongue, and his knees seem to give out. John lowers them until they find themselves kneeling in front of each other on the floor. He pulls away for a moment.

“Do you want to—.”

“Don’t stop,” gasps Sherlock, yanking him back, and John feels a ferocious need to _have_ him, pulling off his blazer and reaching for his shirt buttons. He slides his hands up Sherlock’s back and back down his chest, revelling in the feel of hot, nearly feverish skin. He brings his hands back up and lets his thumbs barely brush over Sherlock’s nipples, the resulting groan making his trousers feel much too tight. He presses closer to Sherlock and feels an answering hardness brush against his own. 

He gently licks, then sucks at Sherlock’s right nipple and Sherlock throws his head back, panting at the ceiling. 

“Is this ok?” he asks, his hands roaming up and down Sherlock’s back. Sherlock nods eagerly, and John gives another suck, watching as Sherlock’s back arches in his arms. He reaches down and undoes both of their trousers, groaning with relief when the pressure eases off his cock. He looks up to find Sherlock watching him, mesmerised. 

“Can I…” John gestures at the two straining cocks mere millimeters away from his fist. 

“Please, yes, _please_ ,” Sherlock begs, gasping when John takes them both in hand. “Oh _God_.”

John starts to stroke, the sensation of Sherlock’s leaking cock against his own nearly overwhelming. He adds a twist at the top of one stroke and Sherlock groans in his arms. With his other hand, John drags Sherlock’s head down for a deep, filthy kiss, practically fucking Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue. Sherlock is completely past words now, moaning with each stroke and clutching desperately at John’s shoulders, barely coherent enough to kiss back. The entire gallery is echoing with his muffled cries, and John hysterically wonders what Guy must think of them. 

Suddenly, Sherlock tenses in his arms. “I’m—,” is all he gets out before he’s groaning into John’s shoulder, biting down to stifle the sounds pouring from his throat as he empties himself over John’s hand. He’s gorgeous, all of his muscles straining as he shudders through aftershock after aftershock, his groans turning into quiet whimpers, and John can’t help it: he comes too, muffling his own cries into Sherlock’s neck. Feeling boneless, he drags Sherlock down so they can sprawl on the floor together. 

“That was…” John pants, grabbing at Sherlock’s dangling shirt sleeve so he can lie closer to him. 

“Sorry,” is what Sherlock replies. John’s eyes snap up to his, and he realizes Sherlock is blushing furiously. 

“Sorry? What is there to apologize for?” he asks, genuinely confused. 

Sherlock cringes, then looks away, clearly embarrassed. “That was probably… faster… than you had intended. I understand if—.”

“No, stop right there, Sherlock. Yeah, it was a little quick, but that was also the _hottest fucking thing_ I have ever witnessed,” he says firmly, making sure to keep eye contact to drive home his point. Sherlock looks shocked. 

“It… was?”

“Yes. Absolutely no contest.”

Sherlock looks like he’s about to argue with him, but John fixes him with a stern glare and Sherlock’s mouth claps shut again. “I— Thank you,” he ends up saying. John smiles up at him.

“And thank _you_ ,” he says, his voice laden with innuendo. Sherlock blushes even redder. 

“All right, have you got any tissues or something? We need to get cleaned up and see if the _Diprotodon_ ended up back in the right place,” John says. He leans over to give Sherlock a quick peck on the forehead before gathering up their clothing. 

They get side-tracked several times while getting dressed, most notably when Sherlock attempts to button up his shirt and John decides that that would be simply unacceptable, but eventually they do make it down the stairs, John reaching out for Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock giving him a shy smile in return.

***  
In the end, the _Diprotodon_ had clearly gotten bored of waiting for them to come back down, because they find it back in the appropriate gallery, staring wistfully at the kangaroos. John finishes reading its sign, and learns that it’s an herbivore. So at least it wasn’t trying to eat him, earlier. 

He quietly backs out the door again, silently praying that it doesn’t turn around and notice him, and he and Sherlock check the rest of the galleries together before sunrise. When they finally make it back to the _Crime_ gallery to say hello to Molly and Greg, it’s nearly time for John’s shift to end. 

They stumble in, laughing and smiling, and it only takes Greg and Molly one look at their dishevelled state to immediately figure out where they’ve been (they _are_ investigators, after all). Greg gives them a saucy wink and a wolf whistle before stepping up onto his pedestal, but Molly merely looks worriedly down at her autopsy table. 

“Don’t mind her,” Greg tells them quietly. “She’s just nervous about the run-in you two geniuses had with the _Diprotodon_.”

“It was John’s fault!” Sherlock cries indignantly. “I was merely trying to rescue him!”

“Okay, sure,” Greg chuckles, turning back to glance at Molly, who finally gives them a small smile. “I’m just glad you two finally had some… Shall we call it fun?” 

Sherlock blushes crimson, and John ducks his head. “I have to get back to my office,” Sherlock mutters, then leaves nearly at a run. John looks up at Greg, confused. 

“He’s just shy,” Greg laughs, then goes completely still. 

John goes home feeling better than he has in years, Sherlock’s shy smile still on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you all on Wednesday :)  
> Thank you so much for reading this, I love every single one of you <3
> 
>  **EDIT** : the wonderful and amazing **[khorazir](http://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/pseuds/khorazir)** made **[some artwork](https://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/144114134618/the-cadogan-gallery-inspired-by-the-brilliant)** for this chapter and _it's gorgeous_!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Really? You’re forgoing my company in order to look at a melted rotary telephone?”_
> 
> _John jumps, then feels his face relax into a smile. “Hi,” he says, grinning._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my friend [futurelondoner](http://archiveofourown.org/users/futurelondoner/pseuds/futurelondoner) was telling me the other day, "Wow, you really don't do slow burn, do you?"
> 
> I don't. But I definitely like to angst it up, so... brace yourselves for what's to come.

John wakes up, walks to the kitchen, makes coffee, and reads the newspaper, all with a huge grin on his face. It stays firmly in place the entire afternoon, even when he takes some time out of his day to take a look at the only-fractionally-less dismal state of his finances. He mumbles a bit to himself as he makes some calculations and pays off what he can, which, in the end, is slightly more than he thought he’d be able to. He hums absentmindedly to himself as he takes a look at the time, gets ready for work, and slips on his jacket.

He’s nearly out the door by the time the grin abruptly disappears. 

_The security cameras._

Sarah had told him, the first day, that no one ever really reviewed the tapes. Looking back, he realizes it’s probably because someone higher up has some sort of inkling of what goes on in the museum at night, but now? If someone thinks to review last night’s security tapes, they’ll not only see the entire museum running amok as expected, but also John and Sherlock _getting it on_ in the Cadogan Gallery! He scrubs his face with his hands and prays to whoever or whatever is up there that Sarah doesn’t decide to review his performance. 

He processes that for a moment, then groans loudly at the heavens. He definitely could have phrased that better.

***  
Despite the better-than-expected result last night, John decides it would be wise to avoid the _Diprotodon’_ s gallery for the time being. He drops his things off in the security office as usual, then jogs up the main stairs in the Red Zone. He wanders around the volcano exhibit on the third floor, looking unseeingly at the descriptive plaques and hoping he looks innocuous enough on camera. 

“Really? You’re forgoing my company in order to look at a melted rotary telephone?”

John jumps, then feels his face relax into a smile. “Hi,” he says, grinning. 

“Hi,” Sherlock says softly, his own face practically glowing, but makes no move to get closer. John frowns, confused, but then Sherlock points out the camera in the corner. He… knew? John realizes this is as good a time to ask as any, and hopes that Sherlock hasn’t got some sort of exhibitionist kink he hasn’t told him about yet.

“You didn’t seem to mind the cameras last night,” he jokes, thoroughly enjoying the way Sherlock’s face turns scarlet. He collects himself quickly, mumbling something under his breath, but the colour remains firmly in place.

“You must be the worst night watchman this museum has ever had,” Sherlock volleys back. 

“Oh?” starts John, raising an eyebrow suggestively. “Because you weren’t complaining about _that_ last night, either.”

Scarlet turns to something verging worryingly on burgundy. 

“There aren’t any cameras in the Cadogan Gallery,” Sherlock finally says. “Nothing in there is susceptible to rise at night, and as I told you, Guy is perfectly harmless.” 

“There aren’t any— Yeah, that makes sense, I guess,” John admits. He looks around the gallery, making sure they’re the only ones up here. “Speaking of which… Would you like to go up there now?

The colour of Sherlock’s face nearly awakens John’s inner doctor.

***  
Without the adrenaline rush of a near-death experience, they aren’t in a hurry. 

This time, John takes the time to slowly unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, kissing each newly-exposed inch of skin as he does. Sherlock’s hands rest gently on his shoulders, and John can feel the tension radiating through them as they tremble. John eases Sherlock’s shirt from his shoulders and stands back to look at him. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he breathes, and Sherlock looks away self-consciously. 

“I know I look unusual, but—,” he murmurs.

“No. You’re gorgeous,” John repeats, then stretches up so he can kiss Sherlock, softly brushing his lips over Sherlock’s fuller ones before increasing the pressure. Sherlock’s hands flutter helplessly in the air for a moment, then settle on John’s hips. Sherlock pulls back after a minute and starts unbuttoning John’s shirt.

“I want to see you, too,” he whispers into John’s neck, and John shivers in his arms as his own shirt is removed. He shuts his eyes as Sherlock runs his fingers across the knot of scar tissue in his shoulder. He feels him gently press around the edges, as though trying to memorize the texture.

“Sorry, I know it’s not very attractive,” John says. Sherlock doesn’t seem to be turned off at all, however, based solely on the hardness currently pressed against John’s thigh. John shivers again when he feels the tip of a tongue trace the edges of the damaged skin, then a gentle press of lips.

“It’s fascinating, John,” Sherlock whispers against it, and John feels an unexpected wave of gratitude towards this completely unexpected man. 

He pulls Sherlock back up so he can kiss him deeply, tightening his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock whimpers into his mouth, pressing closer, and John feels a fresh wave of arousal wash over him. He pulls Sherlock’s head back by the hair so he can lick his neck, and Sherlock actually cries out, his hands convulsing on John’s hips. John lets his teeth graze Sherlock’s hot skin, and the quiet peacefulness from earlier evaporates as Sherlock moans. 

John grinds his clothed cock against Sherlock’s. He delicately sucks at his pulse point until Sherlock can’t take it anymore, his eyes rolled back and his breathing harsh. John grabs two handfuls of Sherlock’s perfect arse and murmurs, “I want to be inside you," into his skin, punctuating it with a teasing touch of tongue.

Sherlock moans, then nods, gasping when John leans forward to give his nipple a lick before going for his wallet. He pulls out a packet of lube and a condom, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him, his lips twitching with held-in mirth.

“I— I just wanted to— It never hurts to be prepared, okay?” John protests, and Sherlock laughs, and John can’t help but think that this is perfect. 

He lays Sherlock down, makes quick work of both their trousers and pants, then straddles him, leaning down to kiss him deeply as his fingers work Sherlock’s nipples into sensitive peaks. He keeps at it, licking into Sherlock’s mouth, until Sherlock is gasping and writhing helplessly beneath him. He scoots back and smears some lube on his fingers, then feels around for Sherlock’s entrance. 

It takes him less than thirty seconds to locate Sherlock’s prostate; he is a doctor, after all. Sherlock immediately melts into a moaning puddle on the floor, his hands fisted in his own hair, his eyes shut tight. John’s cock twitches at the sight, and suddenly, they’re both ready. John lines himself up and Sherlock opens his eyes to look at him. 

“Yeah?” John pants. Sherlock nods, reaching up to grasp at John’s shoulders and pull him down. They both groan when John sinks in, Sherlock looking up at him in what could only be described as wonder. 

“Can I—.”

“ _Move_ , John, _please_ —.”

He cuts off with a cry as John starts moving, muffling his own sounds in Sherlock’s mouth. He pulls his legs up to try to get the right angle, and knows he’s reached it when Sherlock makes a noise like all of the air has just left his body. Every thrust is punctuated by a quiet, “Ah!” that John will never be able to erase from his mind. Sherlock’s hands scrabble frantically at his arms, trying to gain more leverage, and John groans when he succeeds. He leans down and kisses Sherlock again, immediately licking into his mouth. Having Sherlock’s legs thrown over his shoulders in _a gallery at the Natural History Museum_ feels insanely dirty, and insanely hot, and it doesn’t take long before John is close. 

He reaches down to stroke Sherlock, breaking the kiss at the same time to kiss down his chest and swirl his tongue around Sherlock’s right nipple. One, two, three strokes, and Sherlock is frozen beneath him, his mouth a perfect O as all of the muscles in his body contract. With a cry, he comes in stripes across his own chest, and John is undone by the sight, burying himself in Sherlock as his own orgasm barrels down on him. He collapses on top of him, both of them panting like they’ve run a marathon.

“You’re beautiful,” John tells him, and Sherlock gives him a lovely, soft smile in return. They let themselves gather their wits, until finally Sherlock says, with his usual snark, “I don’t suppose ‘being prepared’ extends to having tissues on hand?”

And they dissolve into laughter.

***  
After that, it becomes something of a routine. John shows up at work, immediately rushes to the Cadogan Gallery to have the best sex of his life with the hottest man he’s ever encountered, and then the two of them run amok in the museum until sunrise. 

He can hardly believe it’s been three months, now. 

He’s become such good friends with the _Diplodocus_ that it has taken to following him around the ground floor. It still doesn’t much like the stairs, but perhaps it could be convinced to try them sometime soon. 

The _T. Rex_ doesn’t like him very much, but it generally avoids him now, as though it recognizes his authority but knows it doesn’t have to like it. This does, however, mean that it leaves the _Triceratops_ alone, so John takes what he can get.

Four of the Neanderthal men like him quite a bit, now. He’s let them use his torch as a compromise for the fire debacle, and since he leaves the lights on at all times now, anyway, there’s really no reason not to let them keep it as long as they give it back before sunrise. 

The last Neanderthal man is still bitter about the fact that the torch is not real fire.

Sherlock has also tried to reintroduce him to the parrots, but they just keep shouting _LAUGH IT UP_ at him, so they’ve given up on trying to be friends. John still feels a sort of vicious, vengeful pleasure when he locks them up every night before sunset.

Sherlock has also explained all of the mechanics behind how each and every one of the melted objects in the volcano gallery became that way, and now John can no longer bear to go up there for fear of frying his own brain with overly-detailed knowledge of physics. 

And while it definitely didn’t take him a full three months to, he may have fallen head over heels for a young researcher named Sherlock Holmes. 

***  
It’s only a week after this realization comes that John decides he needs to tell him. It’s become impossible to contain; every look, every laugh they exchange leads to _I love you_ bubbling up to his lips. 

Forcing it back down again is starting to hurt.

***

For John, the timing isn’t perfect, but it’s as close as it’s ever going to get. They’re both lying on the floor of the Cadogan Gallery, naked and sated, holding hands. The moon is full tonight, its light shining through the stained-glass windows and illuminating Sherlock’s miles of pale skin in beautiful reds and blues. Sherlock’s hair is hanging into his eyes, all of the product in it rubbed out by John’s tugging fingers, and he looks younger and impossibly lovely. 

Sherlock looks up at John, glancing momentarily at their intertwined fingers, and smiles softly, and suddenly John couldn’t stop himself if he tried.

“I love you, Sherlock,” he says, and the moment is made that much more perfect by the words drifting from John’s mouth and onto Sherlock’s skin. For a moment, Sherlock simply stares back, awestruck, eyes slightly damp, and John can feel hope swelling in his chest, warm and comforting and dangerous. 

And then Sherlock brushes his hand over his eyes, gathers up his clothes and sprints out of the gallery.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I told him I loved him,” he tells Greg, and Greg makes a noise like a spit-take, but luckily with much less liquid involved._
> 
> _“You told him _what_!?” he shouts._
> 
> _“That I… That I loved him,” John repeats, uncertain now. Had it really been as bad as that?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys, who's excited!? BECAUSE SHIT GETS REAL

It’s a Monday morning the first time John gets called into Sarah’s office. He knows why, but not _exactly_ why, and so he groans loudly when Sarah plunks a brightly-coloured stuffed parrot on the desk in front of her. 

_LAUGH IT UP!_

John has been waiting for this day for nearly a month, now. As much as Greg knows about the museum, he hasn’t wandered particularly far from his own gallery in the time he’s been here, and so hasn’t been nearly as helpful as, well… _Sherlock_. 

John winces. Even now, he can’t stop thinking about him. He forces himself to focus on Sarah. 

“John. I didn’t want to call you in, I really didn’t… But this is the third time you’ve messed about with the displays this month. We found Egyptian beetles in the gents’ last week, and this is the second bird we’ve found perched on top of the _T. Rex_ ,” Sarah says, clearly frustrated. “Though I’m not even sure I want to hear how you were able to climb up there.”

“Sarah, I—,” he starts, then immediately stops, his mouth opening and closing again on a bad “shared ancestor” joke. 

He has no idea if Sarah knows about the museum’s strange situation. And if Sarah doesn’t know, he certainly isn’t going to be the one to tell her. 

Which means he has no excuse to give for why the parrot was out of its case other than, _I forgot to lock the bloody case_ again _and it flew out, shouting_ LAUGH IT UP _at me until I couldn’t see it anymore_. He’s not sure how well that would go over with his boss.

“Yes, John?” Sarah prompts. 

“I— I’ll stop messing around with the displays,” he finishes lamely. 

“You’ve been a great employee, John. You’ve outlasted all of the other night watchmen we’ve had on this job. Please don’t start going down that road, too,” she says sternly. 

“I won’t,” John says quickly. 

Probably too quickly. 

“We’ll be keeping an eye on you, John,” Sarah says, then shoos him out of her office. He hurries out. 

***  
John hasn’t seen Sherlock in nearly a month, now. Ever since he’d stupidly, foolishly declared his love for him.

John knew Sherlock hated people. He knew that. Sherlock had told him the first day they met that he did his research at the museum at night _specifically_ so that he wouldn’t have to see people. He hadn’t seemed to mind John, quite the opposite, really, but hell, this wasn’t the first time John had completely misread a situation. 

One doesn’t get a gunshot wound in a war zone from reading a situation properly, after all, and now it seems that Sherlock hates him so much that he’s overcome his aversion to people and is now gracing the daylight hours with his presence instead.

He slumps into his chair and lets his forehead collide with his desk for the third time this week, then sluggishly gets up to get ready for work. 

Work that suddenly feels like a _job_. 

Without Sherlock, he’s useless at it, and has been trying to make a mental catalogue of every display for the last three weeks. Only the last three, because the first week, he had been too busy hoping blindly that Sherlock would come back. 

Every night, however, he misses something. He’s just lucky that so far they’ve been small things, and he’s been able to put them back the next night with none the wiser. The Egyptian beetles in the gents’, however, had definitely made an impact on the visitors, as had the parrots on top of the _T. Rex_ skull, apparently. It had made that gallery _incredibly_ popular with the children. 

Not for the first time that month, John strongly considers quitting and going back to being a GP. 

If a clinic will hire him, that is. 

***  
He’s in the Bird Gallery, locking the cases to the loud protests of the birds, when Greg comes in. 

“Somehow, I always know you’ll be in here,” he says, smiling a little sadly. 

“Yeah, well… I was called into my boss’s office this morning because one of these bastards—,” he squints threateningly at one of the parrots who, apparently sensing his anger, stays quiet for once, “—was found perched on top of the _T. Rex_ halfway through the day. A school group came in and shrieked at it for ages, which is how Sarah found out about it.”

Greg’s eyes widen slightly. “D’you think she’ll fire you?”

John huffs a dry laugh. “I’ve been warned, apparently. But I think I still have a few more nights to figure out where everything goes. At least the _Diplodocus_ has been nice this whole time.” 

Greg laughs. “The _Diplodocus_ is the nicest being in this entire museum. I don’t think it’s ever done anything wrong in its life.”

John smiles, locking the final case. He and Greg leave the room and start heading over to the Reptile Gallery on the same floor, John explaining to Greg that the lizards are getting craftier and he has to make sure they’re not on top of a cabinet somewhere, but he’s not as engaged in the conversation as he should be. 

The question slowly bubbles up to his lips, and John can’t help but think that it’s been a month. Shouldn’t he be allowed to ask, at least?

“So, have you… Seen Sherlock around, much?” he asks with a horribly feigned casualness as they walk. 

Greg looks over at him uncertainly. There’s a moment where he seems torn, weighing his options carefully in his head, before he finally speaks. 

“Yeah, yeah I have. He doesn’t get out of his office very much, though,” he says carefully. 

“Oh. Um. Got a lot of research on, then?” John asks hesitantly. Just hearing about him is making his chest hurt, but he has to know. He has to know if he’s ruined this forever. 

“You could say that, yeah,” Greg says, clearly uncomfortable. John sighs, but decides to change the subject; after all, Greg was Sherlock’s friend first, not John’s, and he has no right to ask him to give up his secrets like this. He’s about to ask a lame question about _how_ those snails they just passed are used to make purple dye when Greg speaks up, slightly more confidently. 

“I don’t mean to pry,” he starts, “But just what did you tell him? He ran into his office as pale as death, and I’ve barely seen him out since.” 

“D’you really wanna know?” John asks quietly. 

“John, I’ve never seen him look like that. Never. And I’ve known him for a long time,” Greg says emphatically.

It’s John’s turn to weigh his options now. In the end, the worst thing Greg could do is tell Sherlock, and really, it can’t get much worse at this point. 

“I told him I loved him,” he tells Greg, and Greg makes a noise like a spit-take, but luckily with much less liquid involved. 

“You told him _what_!?” he shouts. 

“That I… That I loved him,” John repeats, uncertain now. Had it really been as bad as that?

Greg still looks like he’s been slapped in the face and punched in the stomach at the same time, so John continues.

“I mean. I did. I do. That’s why I said it. He’s just… I’ve never met anyone like him, Greg.”

Greg seems to be piecing himself back together. “Neither have I,” he finally says. 

The sadness washes over John again. “Anyway, it was obviously the wrong thing to say. It was stupid, really. He’d told me he worked here at night specifically to avoid people, and there I am, following him around everywhere and asking him for his help and… and other things.” 

He stops, blushing, before going on. “Obviously he didn’t feel the same way. I can’t believe I didn’t see that. He was right. I’m an idiot. I can’t even remember where the bloody _lizards_ are!”

Greg takes a deep breath, seems to come to a conclusion, then reaches out and tentatively puts a hand on John’s shoulder. 

“John. I don’t know if I should say this. But,” he squeezes John’s shoulder reassuringly as John’s entire being screams, _Say what!?_

“D’you know how long the other night watchmen lasted? What with the museum coming to life and refusing to go back to its rightful state in the morning?”

John shakes his head, willing Greg to go on.

“Only one lasted more than a week, and even then, Sherlock didn’t pay him half as much attention as he has you. That’s why there was so little competition for your job; after a while, no one wanted to try anymore.”

John smiles darkly. “Is this meant to be making me feel better? Because I’m not still here because I’m a brilliant night watchman or something; I’m still here because of Sherlock.”

Greg smiles widely. “Exactly!”

John is confused. “What d’you mean, exactly?”

“John, Sherlock’s been working here for years. He never helped a single person until you showed up.”

John’s eyes widen in surprise. “He didn’t help anyone else?”

Greg nods. “Not a soul. He stayed in his office or in The Vault, working.” 

“So…”

“So,” Greg says, “You might want to think about what that means. Because to me, that sounds like he might not be so against what you said, after all.” 

A small fire of hope lights up in John’s chest, but is nearly immediately dampened again.

“Whether he loves me back or not, Greg, I’m not going to be here much longer,” he says sadly. He looks down at the lizard case, where three are obviously missing. “Sarah won’t put up with me ‘moving’ things much longer, and I’m starting to think I might quit before she fires me.”

He starts to walk towards the door of the gallery. “I have to find those lizards. Tell Sherlock I said hi, I guess.”

When he goes to gather his things in the security office at the end of his shift, he hears a deep, painfully familiar voice arguing with Greg in the _Crime_ Gallery. 

He ignores it. It’s not any of his business anymore. 

***  
He’s thinking so hard about what to write in his resignation letter that he almost doesn’t notice the dark figure coming up the stairs towards him. 

They bump shoulders rather too hard for it to be accidental, and John finally looks up. 

The man is wearing a well-tailored suit not unlike Sherlock’s, but is much shorter, and has an air of something _dark_ in his uncomfortably fake smile. He pulls off his completely unnecessary sunglasses (the sun has barely started rising, after all), and his eyes seem… empty. Vacant. John can’t help but shudder.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and continues down the stairs. A hand on his arm stops him.

“Not so fast, Dr. Watson,” the man says in a lilting Irish accent. John keeps walking towards South Kensington Station, quickening his pace until he doesn’t hear footsteps behind him anymore.

As he reaches the door, he realizes the man knew his name and title, and he whirls around again, ready to return and confront him, only to find him right behind him. John jumps back. 

“How did you—.”

“That’s not important right now, is it, John? That’s not the _puzzle_ ,” he continues, his voice developing a manic edge. John feels a chill run down his spine. 

“The _puzzle_ is, _where’s poor little Sherlock? He doesn’t love me back, does he_?” he says in a sing-song, childish voice. John’s fists clench.

“What do you want with Sherlock?” he demands.

And the man laughs. Laughs like that was the funniest thing John could possibly have said in this moment. 

“It’s not what _I_ want with Sherlock, _Johnny_ ,” he sneers. “It’s about what _you_ want with Sherlock.”

He grins widely. “Let me see… House in the suburbs? 1.5 children? Lovely garden out back _where you can sit and drink tea together_?” he shouts out. John jumps at the sudden change in tone, then rallies and stands his ground. 

Sherlock’s life could be in danger. What could a history PhD student possibly have done to have a man like _this_ after him?

“What. Do you want. With Sherlock,” John repeats. This time, the man doesn’t laugh, but he still smiles a completely off-kilter grin. 

“I’ve already told you, _Johnny_. It’s about what _you_ want with him.” 

He steps right up to John and jabs his index directly into the center of his forehead. His breath smells like decay when he opens his mouth again to speak. 

John is frozen.

“If I were you. _If I were you_. I would go back to the museum during the day. And I would go see him in his _office_.”

He laughs a harsh, humourless sound. “If that’s what he’s calling it these days.” John winces as his index presses painfully into his skin.

“ _Just_ to say a quick _Hello_ to the _researcher_ you like so much.” 

There's a manic lilt at the end of his sentence, but his face sobers a little as he takes John’s clear horror in. “Oh, Johnny. I’m not going to hurt him. You’re going to do that _all by yourself_!”

And then he walks away with a final wave over his shoulder, leaving John alone in front of South Kensington Station, his body shaking beyond his control.

When he manages to pull himself together again, he’s faced with the reality that no matter how much he wants to see Sherlock _right this second_ , he can’t; the daytime security team has already arrived and will have secured the doors by now, and they don’t know him well enough to let him in. He’s going to have to wait until day time and walk in like a regular visitor.

Somehow, he makes it back to his sad, horrible bedsit, and forces himself to sleep. If he’s going to have to face that man again, he’s going to need all of his energy to do it. 

But he’ll go see Sherlock in his office, first. 

Because whether or not Sherlock loves him back, he loves Sherlock, and he needs to know if he’s all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you Wednesdays, and remember, I actually _do_ love you guys, even though it may not seem like it at times ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He walks in, trying very hard not to look at Greg’s stiff, rigid smile. He’s about to walk towards the back, towards the row of office doors, but the light glints off of something in front of Greg, and his curiosity stops him.  
> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit continues to be real

John wakes up, panting and clawing at the sheets, after the least restful night he’s ever had. The Irishman’s words had haunted his every nightmare, his lilting, sing-song voice whispering in his dreams. There was something about him that was simply terrifying down to its very core. 

And he had clearly been after Sherlock. 

The thought drags John the rest of the way from sleep, and he quickly whirls around in his bed to sit on the edge of it, rubbing his eyes. Sherlock won’t be happy to see him. Despite last night’s conversation with Greg, there’s no way Sherlock would react positively to a random daytime visit; his immediate departure from the gallery had made that much obvious.

He drags himself out of bed to make some much-needed coffee, then prepares to visit the museum as a civilian. 

***  
Walking up the road from South Kensington Station in the bright morning sunshine feels strange. He knows he’d been here only yesterday, but there had been a work-related purpose (and near-firing). He hasn’t walked into the museum in his regular clothing in what now feels like a very long time. 

While his purpose isn’t work-related, this time, he’s even more stressed than usual. He doesn’t know how Sherlock will react to his presence, or what Sherlock will be able to tell him about the Irishman. 

In the end, it all comes down to one thing: he hopes Sherlock is safe. 

He shakes his head to clear it, then walks up the steps and into the museum. Just as he’s about to enter the main hall, he catches sight of a sign indicating the opening hours of Imperial College’s research wing. Sherlock’s office isn’t in the wing itself, but should still follow fairly similar hours, unless Sherlock sneaks in here during the day, too. He checks his watch and groans quietly when he realizes that he’s still a little early. 

He walks the rest of the way in and pauses just inside the doors, unsure of what to do. He makes the mistake of staring at the _Diplodocus_ for nearly a minute before remembering that it isn’t going to come to life for at least another eight hours.

He keeps walking when people start to stare at him.

His nervousness starting to get the better of him, John starts to wander aimlessly through the museum, trying to delay the inevitable. He takes a peek at the _T. Rex_ before heading up to the nearly-deserted Cadogan Gallery.

Somehow, it’s even more beautiful here in the daytime. The sunlight catches more clearly on the stained glass windows than the moonlight ever could, and the whole gallery is awash in reds and blues. He has the fleeting thought of somehow convincing Sherlock to come up here during the day, of watching the colours dance across his pale skin, but then remembers that tourists and visitors could walk in on them at any moment, and that would be a bit not good. Despite the gravity of the situation, he finds himself smiling a little at the thought of an indignant Sherlock frantically gathering his clothes. 

Eventually, he finds himself in the Bird Gallery, surrounded by a gaggle of children all pointing at the two beautiful, colourful parrots. Their frozen faces stare out across the crowd, and John can’t help but think, _Who’s laughing it up now!?_ He is immediately horrified at himself and leaves the room. 

He doesn’t go to the Human Evolution Gallery, because there’s just something about the still faces of the usually rowdy Neanderthals that makes his skin crawl, and just like that, he finds himself in the doorway of the _Crime_ Gallery. His throat tightens a little further.

He’d never quite believed Sarah when she told him there weren’t many visitors here, but she was right. The gallery is deserted, and he doesn’t feel nearly as comfortable here during the day, surrounded by the frozen forms of his friends. 

He walks in, trying very hard not to look at Greg’s stiff, rigid smile. He’s about to walk towards the back, towards the row of office doors, but the light glints off of something in front of Greg, and his curiosity stops him.

The plaque in front of Greg is brass, shiny, and has a distinctly antique look about it. John can’t help but wonder if it’s the original plaque from 1895. It’s a little bit discoloured and worn, but the words are still clearly visible. He looks left, then right, feeling slightly ridiculous. It’s not as if he isn’t allowed to read the plaque on a statue at a museum.

Feeling very much like he’s intruding on Greg’s privacy (which is silly, because at least a thousand visitors have read this already), he reads:

_Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade  
Works for Scotland Yard as one of several Detective Inspectors on the force._

There really isn’t much there, and he breathes out a sigh of relief. He squints so he can read the writing on the smaller, newer-looking plaque directly beneath it.

_This plaque certifies that this statue was placed here in 1895 as part of the longest-running exhibit ever hosted by this museum._  
As part of a refurbishment effort in 2010, all of the statues in this gallery were  
updated to more modern standards. As such, the original costumes are no  
longer on display, but can still be viewed upon request. 

It’s at this point that he realizes that Molly must have been added after 1895, likely during the 2010 refurbishment, since women weren’t exactly known for being pathologists back then. Feeling slightly less guilty, he heads over to her autopsy table and takes a peek at her plaque as well.

_Doctor Molly Hooper  
Forensic pathologist at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital  
The job of a forensic pathologist is to work with the police in order to uncover clues…_

John skims the rest, but it’s simply an explanation of the job of a forensic pathologist, probably for young visitors. There is no further explanation of refurbishment, and no certifying plaque, confirming that she must have been placed here around 2010.

With a start, he realizes that Greg must have been rather lonely here, from 1895 until either Sherlock or Molly showed up. John wonders what he used to do at night; the _Diplodocus_ is sweet, but isn’t particularly good company, and the Neanderthals aren’t quite on Greg’s intellectual level. Then again, Sherlock is several levels _above_ Greg, so… 

The thought of Sherlock forces his train of thought back on track. He turns towards the back of the exhibit, then checks his watch again. Sherlock should have arrived while he was insulting the parrots in his head.

It’s rather dark, and he can’t see any doors. He sidles closer, and realizes that there is nothing back here other than a few dusty glass cases. He looks back and forth, feeling like he’s losing his mind, but can’t seem to find a door, never mind anything even remotely resembling an office or research wing.

He’s about to leave, thinking he must have gotten it wrong, when he notices that the case in the furthest corner is much less dusty than the others. He feels something odd trickle down the back of his neck, and as he slowly inches his way towards that last case, he’s suddenly grateful that this gallery receives so few visitors. 

The first thing he notices is that the top half of the plaque is covered in dust. The only statement visible is the one certifying that this statue was placed here as part of the original exhibit in 1895. He reaches out with a shaking hand to brush the dust off the top.

_Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes  
Consulting Detective, the only one in the world_

Feeling like the world is spinning, John puts his hand up against the glass to steady himself, and Sherlock’s dead, immobile face stares back at him from inside. He cries out, and the world continues to spin until he collapses onto the ground.

***  
He awakens what feels like hours later, but in reality is only a few minutes. The world is no longer spinning, but when he looks up, Sherlock’s vacant stare feels like a punch to the gut all the same. 

He manages to pick himself up off the floor, wincing as his head starts to pound, and a single, horrifying thought starts looping through his head. 

_Sherlock isn’t real. Sherlock isn’t real. Sherlock isn’t real—_

He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes to make it stop. 

He can’t believe he’s been this stupid. He can’t believe he followed this man all through the museum. He can’t believe he’d become this man’s friend.

He can’t believe he’s fallen in love with a statue. 

He barely makes it home before the sobs claw their way out of his chest and into his throat.

***  
He awakens again several hours later, feeling like’s been hit by a lorry, and within seconds, everything comes crashing back down. 

_Sherlock isn’t real._

He immediately feels the urge to sob again, but this time, when he glances out of the window, he realizes that sunset isn’t that far off, and that despite his current crisis, he still has a job to do. 

He dresses slowly, gingerly, every movement jostling something sensitive that hit the ground when he fell. He doesn’t want to go there. Not now.

He doesn’t want to face him. 

He forces himself through the door, into the street, and into the Tube. 

The whole ride there hurts, and not just because of his fall earlier. 

A month ago, this had been the best job of his life. He had been working with all sorts of amazing animals and skeletons, and followed around a madman who was brilliant and fantastic. 

And John had fallen in love with him.

Now, four weeks later, he’s heading to a job where several of the animals have it out for him, the lizards are definitely hiding in the loo, and the madman is not real. The madman, the perfect, beautiful madman, is a statue. 

Feeling like he’s on the verge of tears again, John rubs his eyes discreetly and hopes no one in the carriage has noticed. 

When he finally reaches the darkened steps of the museum, he hesitates at the door, trying to convince himself to go in. It’s much harder than it should be, but eventually, he makes up his mind and pushes the heavy door open.

He’s in love with Sherlock, and while Sherlock may be a statue, John decides that Sherlock still deserves a chance to explain.

With his mind made up, he marches right through the Human Evolution Gallery and into the _Crime_ Gallery, sits down directly in front of Sherlock’s case, and waits for night to properly fall. 

The _Diplodocus_ can wait, tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahahahaaaaaaaaa ok I think I'm going to update on Saturday just so that none of y'all come find me and take me out  
> Because Canada is big, but it ain't big enough to hide from all of you


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I was assisting Cambridge University with an investigation in 1895, before Imperial College was even founded. Before I was turned into _this_.”_
> 
> _His hand comes up against the glass, palm up, as though reaching out for John._
> 
> _“Please believe me,” he whispers, his voice cracking, and something inside John breaks._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the beginning of Saturday updates, everyone :)

Sherlock begins to stir just as the sun finally sets, the eerie orange glow disappearing completely from the gallery. The first movement is a twitch of his eyelids, barely visible, but John immediately notices when the colour returns to his cheeks and the intelligent, sharp gaze returns to his eyes. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out what looks like a bobby pin, and sets to fiddling with the locking mechanism inside his case. Doing so forces him to look down, and he freezes, looking even more still than he was mere minutes ago when he catches sight of John.

He slowly backs up, thumping into the wall at the back of the case. The colour that had but moments ago given life to his face drains right back out of it. His mouth works for a moment, but no sound emerges. He’s looking at John with wide eyes, and in any other circumstance, John would have been proud of himself for rendering him speechless. Behind him, he hears Greg and Molly whisper something to each other before discreetly exiting the gallery. 

They’re alone. 

“John, I—,” Sherlock whispers. He can’t seem to get much further than that, so John decides to help him along. 

“When?” It comes out as a low, dangerous whisper.

Sherlock looks confused, but makes no move to exit his case. 

“When were you going to tell me, Sherlock?” John asks, his tone oddly calm despite his rapidly growing rage. “When were you going to tell me that you aren’t real?”

Sherlock reels back like he’s just been slapped, his face slackened in shock, but he says nothing in his own defense. 

“ _Answer me, damn you_!”

Sherlock tries to back further into the case, but to no avail. For the first time since they met, his calm, superior outwardly composure is gone, revealing the cracked remnants of what lies beneath. His eyes have gone red-rimmed, his right fist is clenching and unclenching by his side, and he looks nothing short of devastated. Sherlock takes a deep, shuddering breath before finally whispering, his voice sounding more broken than John’s ever heard it, “I _am_ real.”

“You’re a statue, Sherlock. A statue designed in 1895 for a crime exhibit,” John snaps. Sherlock seems to shrink before his eyes. 

“I wasn’t always a statue,” he whispers. “I was a detective.”

“What do you mean, you’re a detective? You’re supposedly a researcher at Imperial College. You’ve got to stick to a story for it to be believable,” he says. His words are harsh, short, and cruel, and the rage simmering away in his chest feels almost satisfied by the way Sherlock flinches with every one.

“I _was_ a detective, John. I—Please. You have to believe me,” Sherlock pleads.

John opens his mouth to scoff, to take Sherlock down a notch, to hurt Sherlock more than he’s hurt _him_ , but before he can say anything at all, he looks up, and Sherlock’s eyes lock with his. 

This is Sherlock. No haughty façade, no deductions, no mask in place. This is a man who looks like he’s had everything taken away from him, and is about to lose the last good thing he has. 

And if an entire museum can be brought to life at night by a magical ancient Egyptian tablet, why couldn’t a man be turned into a statue by one, too?

John closes his eyes and forces his anger down again. He does love this man, after all. It takes several attempts, the rage that had built up over the last month feeling like it’s embedded in his very bones, but when he finally manages to push it from his mind, he opens his eyes and nods, once, at Sherlock. The hopeful expression on Sherlock’s face is almost painful to witness.

“I was assisting Cambridge University with an investigation in 1895, before Imperial College was even founded. Before I was turned into _this_.”

His hand comes up against the glass, palm up, as though reaching out for John.

“Please believe me,” he whispers, his voice cracking, and something inside John breaks. 

He yanks the case open and practically drags Sherlock out of it and onto the ground beside him. He sits back against it, then rearranges Sherlock so that they’re sitting side by side, but not touching. Sherlock looks longingly down at his hand, but John pulls it away.

“I believe you. I do. But. I’m not quite there yet. I’m sorry. You left, Sherlock. That hurt.”

“I’m sorry. When you said… _that_ , I couldn’t—.” He swallows thickly, but puts his own hand back in his lap, wedging it between his thighs as though to prevent further escape attempts. 

“Thank you,” John says quietly. 

Sherlock nods, his eyes looking worryingly glassy for a second, but the moment passes, and he looks straight ahead as he starts to speak, rattling off the words like he would a deduction. 

“In 1892, I was a consulting detective. The only one in the world; I invented the job,” he says, nodding at the plaque with a grim smile. “I lived in London, and I worked with Scotland Yard whenever they were out of their depth. Which, of course, was nearly all the time.

“One day, I was called to Cambridge University to assist Scotland Yard on an ongoing case. A team of researchers had uncovered the tomb of Ahkmenrah on a recent expedition to Egypt, and Cambridge was to investigate the origins and uses of a golden tablet found right within the sarcophagus itself. According to the hieroglyphics, it had mystical powers tied to the moon. Even without full knowledge of its uses, however, the tablet was made of pure gold, and was therefore priceless. And in the night, it had been stolen.”

“But the tablet is here, in The Vault. Greg showed it to me, he said it was what you were doing your research on,” John interrupts. 

“And I am the reason it’s there,” Sherlock says. John looks up at him, surprised. “Why?”

“The criminal organisation behind the theft had been aided by what we would jokingly call a ‘consulting criminal’ at the Yard. That man’s name was Moriarty, and he not only managed to escape with the tablet, but also with all of the notes that had been taken on it. It was 1892; there were no _photocopies_.”

“Okay. But he would have had to sell it to make the money, no?” 

“I think that was his original intention, yes; to sell it on the black market. However, that was before I interfered, and he began to take a special interest in me. I foolishly believed that the longer I could keep him interested in me, the longer I would have to find the tablet,” Sherlock continues. He clenches his fists in frustration, briefly turning to stare unseeingly at his case.

“One night, he sent me a telegram, and we met at an indoor swimming pool at midnight. He mocked me before pulling out the tablet and telling me it had magical powers. I scoffed at him at first, and he eventually got angry with me.

“He told me he’d had such great expectations of what we could have been together, but in the end, I was just like everyone else. He ran outside with the tablet, and I chased after him to see if I could get it back. 

“When I got outside, he entered a combination into the tablet. He pointed it at me, laughing, and that was it.

“The next time I awoke, it was night time in the museum, it was now 1895, and I found I was in a glass case. I panicked, as did what sounded like the entire museum, and somehow, I forced my way out of the case and tried to leave. 

“I found I was unable to cross the threshold, and I’ve been here ever since.”

John watches him, and finally sees the sadness permanently etched into Sherlock’s features. “I still don’t understand how he made you like this,” he finally says.

Sherlock turns towards him. “The tablet has properties no one here has ever been able to understand. Through my own research much later, I learned that it’s activated by moonlight, and has the ability to give life, as well as take it. I have strong reason to believe he’s used it to render himself immortal, and is still active to this day, based solely on the cases I’ve been called on to solve through my blog. 

“After entrapping me here, he hid the tablet in the archives until it ‘resurfaced’ again in the 1950s, and was placed in The Vault.” 

John sits up straighter, something still not adding up. “You’ve got a mobile! And a website! How is that even possible?”

Sherlock smiles, a faraway look in his eyes. “There was a night watchman several years ago named Victor. He gave me a phone, and taught me to use it. From there, I was able to set up an online bank account so I could charge money for cases and have it directly deposited. I pay for my mobile subscription that way, as well as for a new phone I purchased last year. It was tricky arranging for a night-time delivery, but well worth it.”

John looks off into the distance, letting all of this wash over him, and for once, Sherlock says nothing. They both sit in silence for several long minutes, listening to each other breathe, until finally, John slowly reaches out towards Sherlock and takes his hand in his own. 

Sherlock’s relieved exhale makes John’s chest hurt. When he finally looks up, he finds Sherlock staring at their hands, his eyes a little damp. 

The impulse to kiss Sherlock’s tears away is irresistible. He reaches up, gently cupping Sherlock’s face with his free hand, and slowly pulls it down towards him. Sherlock makes a quiet sound when their lips meet, and John kisses him for a long moment before pulling back. 

“I love you, Sherlock,” he whispers. The words don’t feel any less momentous this second time. 

Sherlock’s breath hitches, what sounds like a sob catching in his throat. “Still?” he breathes. 

“I love you, Sherlock,” John repeats, and Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s before finally whispering, “I love you, too, John.”

John pulls him into a tight hug, a little abruptly, maybe, based on the way Sherlock’s breath huffs quickly from his lungs. John hums quietly into Sherlock’s neck, but Sherlock merely pulls him closer, his breathing not completely steady. Eventually, John raises his head to speak. 

“So in all of your research, you still haven’t found a way to reverse what he did to you?” he asks. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, but I did learn several things about the tablet. In the end, Cambridge did publish their notes, and when the tablet was eventually ‘rediscovered’ in the archives of the museum and put on display, more research was done then, as well.”

John gives him a prompting look, still holding his hand tightly in his own. 

“Moriarty was definitely capable of making himself immortal using the tablet, but that I discovered using a translation of some ancient Egyptian text. I don’t think anyone here has discovered what it means yet, and quite frankly, I hope they never do. 

“The tablet also has certain inherent properties, such as its link to the moon as well as the way it wakes everything in the museum at night, due to that link. 

“I am bound to the tablet; I cannot leave the museum as long as it’s here, but I also can’t take it anywhere with me—.”

Something finally clicks, and John gasps in horror. Sherlock looks down at him, momentarily startled into silence. “You haven’t left this museum since _1895_!?” 

“No, I haven’t,” Sherlock says carefully. John claps his mouth shut to stop himself shouting at the unfairness of it all. This curious, intelligent, inquisitive mind hasn’t properly seen anything new in over a hundred years.

The rage comes bubbling back up with a vengeance, but for a completely different reason, this time.

Sherlock scrutinizes him before continuing. “If the tablet were to leave the museum, everything in here, myself included, would remain statues until its return.” 

The bubbling is nearing a raging boil, and eventually, he can’t hold himself back anymore. “You said his name was Moriarty. The man who did this to you.”

Sherlock nods.

“What does he look like? Where is he? _How can I find him_!?” He’s whispering, but there’s nothing quiet or soothing about it. 

“John, I—.”

“Sherlock. _Tell me_. Please.”

“He’s not very tall. Probably approximately your height. Dark hair. Irish… I don’t _know_ , John, I haven’t seen the man since 1895—.”

John feels all of the blood drain from his face to pound in his temples instead. Sherlock catches sight of him and abruptly stops talking. 

“—John?” he asks tentatively. He looks down at where John is now holding his hand in a vice-like grip. 

“I’ve seen him, Sherlock.” 

When Sherlock’s face only looks confused, John goes on. 

“He’s the one who told me to come find you in the day time.”

Sherlock’s face loses all of its colour, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Sherlock didn’t like my message much, did he?” Moriarty asks, his voice sounding almost properly disappointed._
> 
> _“No, he didn’t, but then, most people don’t enjoy being locked in a glass case,” John replies. He blinks once, but it’s no longer necessary; he’s wide awake now._
> 
> _“Snarky, aren’t we? That’s no way to treat the man who’s here to give you your only chance to save him.”_

John doesn’t sleep particularly well after learning that he’d met, in person, the man who had put Sherlock in this situation. He spends most of the day wishing he’d strangled him with his bare hands.

When it’s finally time to get ready for his shift, he doesn’t feel anywhere near well-rested. He trudges down the stairs and into the Tube with a sigh.

After Sarah’s warning, he’s learned to be more thorough. He arrives exactly on time, as usual, and heads straight for the security office to turn all of the lights back on. The afternoon shift always turns them off when they leave, and he still hasn’t got around to asking anyone if they’re aware of what goes on after hours. It’s probably safer to keep turning them on himself.

He then proceeds to the bird gallery, walking up and down the rows of cases and double-checking that each one is closed. The parrots don’t even protest this time, seeming to understand that there’s something more important on his mind and staying quiet. He gives their case a fond pat as he leaves, smiling to himself at the indignant squawk his action produces.

Thanks to the parrots’ cooperation, he moves on fairly quickly to the loo near where the Egyptian beetles are kept to ensure they haven’t somehow managed to wedge themselves behind a urinal again. Satisfied with his search of the toilets, he goes in to check their actual cases, making sure they aren’t going to get out and sneak into the loo while he’s gone. 

The lizards, however, turn out to be the most interesting part of his night so far. Backing out of the gallery after confirming they’re still in their display, he nearly collides with Greg and Molly in one of the darker corners near the doorway. They spring apart with an embarrassed shout, Molly blushing furiously and Greg looking sheepish. John grins at them and hastily backs away, flashing them a quick thumbs up before hurrying out of the gallery. He must be much more tired than he’d originally thought, because he turns to laugh about it with Sherlock, and _that_ is when he realizes he isn’t there.

Wondering if maybe Sherlock forgot they’d reconciled, John heads back towards the _Crime_ gallery. While Sherlock isn’t officially a researcher, it still wouldn’t surprise John if he got lost in his work. 

Greg and Molly are, as expected, nowhere to be seen, leaving only the fake corpse on the autopsy table. As he nears the back, he hears a panicked but very muffled, “ _John_?” 

He hurries towards the sound, and when he finally catches sight of the row of cases at the back, he runs forward, anger boiling in his veins.

Sherlock’s case has been covered with some sort of heavy-duty construction tarp, muffling most noises coming from inside of it. John viciously tears it off, only to find Sherlock looking lost and defeated inside his case. The bobby pins lie on the ornate velvet at the bottom of the display, useless now, since a chair has been jammed up under the small handle. John yanks the chair away and wrenches open the case’s door, taking Sherlock immediately in his arms. It doesn’t take long for him to realize that Sherlock is shaking. 

“Hey,” he whispers into Sherlock’s hair. 

“John,” Sherlock manages. He clutches at John’s shoulders with a desperation John has never seen before. 

“What happened?” John asks, trying to keep the anger from his voice. 

“Moriarty,” Sherlock says, and John pulls back to get a good look at Sherlock’s terrified face. “He told me it’s time he came to take the tablet back.”

“He’s here!?” John gasps. He makes to tear out of Sherlock’s embrace and go after him, but Sherlock tightens his arms and shakes his head. 

“He _was_ here. He’d got the chair under the handle before sunset, and since it’s so dark back here Lestrade and Molly never noticed.” Sherlock’s nose ends up in John’s hair somehow, nuzzling into it. The shaking doesn’t stop. John ignores the furious ringing in his ears in favour of trying to reassure Sherlock.

“He can’t take it back anyway, isn’t the security in The Vault good enough to keep him out?” 

“ _Nothing_ is good enough to keep him out,” Sherlock whispers harshly. “He’s the world’s only consulting criminal for a reason, John.”

“I just—I don’t understand. It’s been over a hundred years, Sherlock, why would he bother taking it back _now_?” 

Sherlock’s response is so quiet John nearly doesn’t catch it. “Because I’m _happy_ , John.”

John goes quiet, trying not to let the thought of Sherlock having been unhappy _for the last hundred years_ paralyze him into never doing anything but holding Sherlock as close and as tightly as possible ever again. “And what happens if he gets the tablet back?”

Sherlock pulls back, then looks down at him solemnly. “I’ll remain a statue in a case at the back of a forgotten exhibit forever.”

It feels like someone’s thrown a bucket of ice water directly down John’s spine. 

He’s just found Sherlock. _He can’t lose him already_. 

More instinctively than anything else, he takes Sherlock’s hand and drags him up the stairs to the Cadogan Gallery, ignoring the sounds of the _T. Rex_ and _Triceratops_ fighting and the two lizards that scamper down the stairs in the opposite direction. 

He slams Sherlock against the doorway, unable to wait any longer, and kisses him hard, licking into his mouth with abandon. Sherlock moans helplessly and gives back as good as he’s getting, both of them desperate to re-affirm their love for each other before everything gets torn away from them. He shoves Sherlock’s suit jacket off his shoulders and Sherlock gives a breathless laugh. 

“What?” John pants into the space behind Sherlock’s ear. He catches Sherlock as his knees buckle, then wedges a thigh between Sherlock’s legs to hold him up. Sherlock groans loudly before responding. 

“How… How did you not notice… I never changed clothes!?” he gasps out. 

John pulls back and laughs, too. “I guess I’m as much of an idiot as you always say I am.”

Sherlock suddenly looks dead serious. “You’re not an idiot, John,” he whispers, and suddenly they’re kissing again, John tightening his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock grinding shamelessly against John’s thigh. John pulls them further into the gallery and starts taking off the rest of Sherlock’s clothes. 

Once they’re both naked, John straddles Sherlock and leans down to kiss him again, teasing his nipples and loving the way Sherlock writhes under his ministrations. Despite his desperation, Sherlock still somehow manages to reach into John’s trousers and pull out a packet of lube. He throws it at John, who catches it, then shuffles down Sherlock’s thighs so he can reach between them and open him up. 

He locates Sherlock’s prostate with his usual precision, and watches in awe as Sherlock’s back arches and his nails scrabble at the floor. He feels a pang of regret that he’ll never see Sherlock’s beautiful hands fisted in the sheets on a proper bed. 

When Sherlock’s vocabulary has completely devolved into nothing but grunts and moans, John flips them over. Sherlock looks down at him, confused. 

“You’re gorgeous,” John says, his voice hoarse with arousal. “I want to see you.”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide, but he nods and reaches behind himself to steady John’s cock. 

John’s eyes roll back in his head as Sherlock starts to sink down on him, taking him in inch by inch until Sherlock’s arse is resting on his thighs. Sherlock throws his head back and groans, his cock leaking onto John’s stomach. John reaches up and rubs his hands up and down Sherlock’s trembling thighs, soothing him. The muted colours of the stained glass windows dance across Sherlock’s pale skin, and John finds himself speaking without ever having meant to.

“Do you know what I was thinking, the one time I came in here during the day?” he asks quietly. 

Sherlock shakes his head, too far gone to speak. 

“I was imagining you, here, in the daytime. The sunlight makes the colours contrast so much more, and they’re so much brighter, and I was imagining us here, like this, the colours all across your skin—.”

Sherlock cuts him off with a deep kiss, his tongue plundering John’s mouth from above, and they both cry out when John’s hips give an involuntary thrust. 

“I love you, John,” Sherlock says against his lips, and John can’t hold back any longer; he grabs hold of Sherlock’s thighs and starts thrusting in earnest, each movement of his hips dragging a beautiful moan from Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock looks _devastating_ , debauched, _perfect_ , and John barely manages to gasp out, “Touch yourself, love, _please_ —,” before Sherlock reaches down and starts fisting his own cock, his eyes sliding shut as he thrusts back and forth between his fist and John. It’s not long before he goes completely still, his eyes refocusing on John’s as his body starts shaking and he comes in ribbons all across John’s chest, John’s name spilling from his lips like a prayer. 

John is shaking, too, completely overwhelmed, and it doesn’t take long for him to go rigid within Sherlock’s body, crying out as his orgasm overtakes him. 

Sherlock collapses onto John, still shaking, and they hold each other, whispers of _I love you_ filling the Cadogan Gallery. 

***  
The next afternoon, John is roused from his sleep by the feeling that someone is watching him. When he realizes who it is, he frantically fumbles for his desk drawer, but collapses onto the floor when Moriarty trips him with his own cane. 

“ _Oh_ , Johnny, we can’t have _that_ , can we?” he drawls, wagging a finger like a deranged parent. John looks up at him from the floor, the blanket of sleep still clinging to his shoulders. 

“What are you doing here,” he asks, deadpan. 

“Sherlock didn’t like my message much, did he?” Moriarty asks, his voice sounding almost properly disappointed. 

“No, he didn’t, but then, most people don’t enjoy being locked in a glass case,” John replies. He blinks once, but it’s no longer necessary; he’s wide awake now. 

“Snarky, aren’t we? That’s no way to treat the man who’s here to give you your only chance to save him.”

John’s eyes widen. “And why would you want to do that?”

Moriarty’s grin looks like it should have more teeth in it. “ _All_ I’ve ever wanted is for Sherlock to be _happy_! You didn’t see how _sad_ he was—.” 

John’s patience is starting to wear thin. He pushes himself back up so he’s standing on Moriarty’s level. “What. The fuck. Do you want?”

Moriarty’s mad giggle fills the tiny bedsit. “ _Johnny_ , the _mouth_ on you! But fine, all right, here’s how you can save Sherlock:

“The tablet is activated by moonlight. _All_ you have to do is get it outside and enter this combination into it!” 

Moriarty throws John a small piece of paper. John watches it flutter down to his feet; he makes no move to pick it up. 

Moriarty watches him for a moment, his eyes clouding over. His tone gets significantly darker. “I’d pick that up, if I were you, Johnny. That combination will revive Sherlock _and_ preserve the museum in its current—shall we say vampiric?—state.”

John pauses. “What do you mean?”

Moriarty heaves out an exaggerated sigh, his manic persona returning immediately. “It _means_ , Johnny, that Sherlock will be human again, _and_ the museum will still come alive at night. That’s what’s so much fun about this tablet; it’s _so_ changeable!”

“Why would you _possibly_ think I would believe you?” John asks, low and dangerous. 

Moriarty grins his shark-like smile. “Because whether or not you do, I’m taking it back tonight, and this is the only chance you’ve got to make sure I don’t take _precious_ Sherlock with it.”

With that, he strides across the room to the door and exits the bedsit without a single parting word. John leaps up to lock the door and put the chain on, then comes back to his original position by the bed. He waits a minute, two minutes, three minutes before reaching down and picking up the sheet of paper. 

He nearly jumps out of his skin when the door slams open against its chain and Moriarty’s head appears in the hole.

“ _HEEEEEERE’S JOHNNY!_ ” he cackles madly when he catches sight of John’s terrified expression. He doesn’t even flinch when John wrenches open the drawer and levels the gun, every movement perfectly smooth and rehearsed. 

He stops cackling. “Sorry about the _scare_. I just came back to tell you that _sunset_ is in an hour.”

And then he’s gone, leaving John shaking like a leaf with the combination clutched in one trembling fist and his gun ready and loaded in the other. 

An hour until sunset. He hasn’t got much of a choice, then, has he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the update is on Wednesday, in case you guys were thinking of getting that bus going again <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The sun isn’t quite down yet, so he still has enough time to do what must be done. He walks briskly towards the _Crime_ Gallery, the stress so great his limp threatens to make a reappearance. This isn’t the good sort of stress he feels while dashing about the museum with Sherlock, and he clenches his teeth against the phantom pain in his leg before forcing himself onwards._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... about that bus

John almost doesn’t enter the museum. He stands in the middle of the stairs, heart pounding, ears ringing, and stares at the door. The combination is still clenched tightly in his fist, the paper crumpled nearly beyond recognition, but he doesn’t need it; he’s read it over so many times on the Tube ride over that at this point, he could enter it into the tablet in his sleep. 

The trouble is, he knows what he has to do before he can even go near The Vault, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to do it. There’s only one real obstacle in his way, after all. 

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, then pushes open the heavy ornate door. 

The sun isn’t quite down yet, so he still has enough time to do what must be done. He walks briskly towards the _Crime_ Gallery, the stress so great his limp threatens to make a reappearance. This isn’t the good sort of stress he feels while dashing about the museum with Sherlock, and he clenches his teeth against the phantom pain in his leg before forcing himself onwards.

Once inside, he goes straight to the back and, loathing himself, does what Moriarty had done the night before; he jams a chair up underneath the handle of the case. He wastes several precious moments trying to find the thick, nearly sound-proof tarp, but he eventually does. He drapes it over the top of the display, Sherlock’s vacant eyes watching him accusingly all the while.

He takes a moment to look at the case from Greg and Molly’s perspective, but it’s so dark back there that he can’t even make out the tarp, much less the chair and Sherlock’s predicament. He prays to a God he’s not even sure exists that Molly and Greg are so wrapped up in each other that they don’t think to check on Sherlock. 

Next, he runs towards the security office, his heart pounding even harder at the thought of what he’s just done to Sherlock. He starts by checking the two billboards at the back of the room, but none of the papers pinned to it bear the information he so desperately needs. He tears open drawer after drawer, looking for the combination to The Vault, but it remains elusive. The security office is soon littered with papers and files, and becomes treacherously slippery. He nearly loses his footing several times, and it’s only when he finally does lose it and ends up flat on his back that he finds the code.

There’s a post-it note stuck to the bottom of the desk; how very like security to not actually care very much about security. He tears the post-it note off and shoves it in his pocket, taking off at a shaky, painful run towards The Vault. His feet slap loudly against the hard stone floor of the entrance hall, the echo seeming deafening in the before-sunset stillness of the museum. As he runs, however, he becomes aware of the _Diplodocus_ turning towards him, slowly, shaking off the weight of sleep, and he knows he has very little time before Moriarty arrives to reclaim the tablet. 

The door to The Vault rises up ominously before him, locked and secure. The key pad blinks tauntingly at him from the side of the door, but he’s prepared. He rapidly punches in the code and the light blinks an agreeable green at him before he hears the loud click that means it’s unlocked. He shoves the door aside and sprints to the back, towards the case with the tablet in it. 

Once he finds it, he finally sees the real flaw in his plan. He groans in frustration, unable to believe he could have forgotten this one crucial aspect. He has the code for The Vault, yes, but not for the case within it. It’s made of thick glass, but it’s breakable. That isn’t the issue here. 

The real problem right now is that if he breaks that glass, several alarms will go off at once in the museum, and even all of his army training won’t be enough to help him against the squadron of police officers that will come after him. His breathing stutters for a moment as the implications of what he’s about to do suddenly crash over him in a wave. He could go to prison for this.

But if it means saving Sherlock…

He breathes deeply, squares his shoulders, and unclips his torch from his utility belt. He swings it up and back like a golf club, then brings it crashing down onto the corner of the case. The resulting break is surprisingly quiet as far as shattering glass goes, and he quickly reaches inside to grab the tablet, splinters of glass clattering to the ground all around him. He holds it in his hands and looks down at it, everything suddenly gaining a surreal quality; how can all of this chaos, this life so horribly ruined, be caused by this one simple object?

His moment of reflection is cut short by the sudden blaring of alarms, and he shoves the tablet under his arm as he sprints through the door and all hell breaks loose. Downstairs, the animals have awoken to the sound of sirens, and they don’t seem to be taking it very well. Several kangaroos go flying past, and John only has a brief moment to consider how they got out of their cases before the _Diprotodon_ is standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him menacingly. 

John gulps, his courage faltering for what seems like the hundredth time tonight. Looking desperately around, he realizes that there’s only one way for him to do this. He takes one more frantic moment to prepare himself before he flies down the stairs, tablet still clutched like his life depends on it (no, like Sherlock’s does), and sprints pas the _Diprotodon_ , hearing its heavy footfalls much too close behind him as he heads for the exit. The _Diplodocus_ whips its head around to follow his progression across the entrance hall, seems to come to some sort of decision, and then does something John would never have expected it to do for him: it smashes its skull down directly onto the _Diprotodon’s_ head. The _Diprotodon_ stops in its tracks and turns to find its assailant, and John is home free. He’s just turning the inside handle on the door when he hears him.

“ _John_!” Sherlock shouts from the entrance of the Human Evolution Gallery. He’s running towards him, the betrayal shining bright in his eyes, his hands bloodied from where he must have broken the glass panel of his case. 

John takes a moment to look at the most brilliant, beautiful human being he has ever encountered, takes a shuddering breath, and steps outside the museum with the tablet in his arms. 

Everything goes as quiet as a tomb.

He looks up. The moon is just coming out from behind the clouds, and John frantically starts twisting the tiles of the tablet into the right formation. It hums quietly in his hands and starts to gain a slight silvery sheen as he progresses. 

Something slams into the side of his head, hard, right over his left temple. 

He staggers to the side, catching himself on the stairs just before his head collides with them, but receives a blow to the right side of the head that sends him flying right into them. Large hands wrench the tablet from his suddenly spasming fingers, ignoring his feeble attempts to grab it back. He feels his head loll to the side, and he realizes he hasn’t got the strength to hold it up.

“Ta so very much, Johnny,” the hateful voice whispers in his ear. “We could never have done it without you.”

He forces all of his remaining strength into sitting up, just in time to see Moriarty and a great hulking man walk out into the night, the still-glowing tablet under Moriarty’s arm. 

He twists his head around, fighting the dizziness, and the last thing his conscious mind sees is Sherlock’s still form standing in the doorway, arm outstretched as he looks vacantly out into the night. 

John passes out on a sob.

***  
“John, I have seen night watchmen do very odd things in this museum at night, but this definitely takes the cake.”

Sarah’s voice is stern, much sterner than the first time she’d called him in for rearranging the museum at night. Stealing the tablet of Ahkmenrah is, after all, much more serious than a load of beetles staying in the gents’ overnight. He forces himself to focus on Sarah, not his pounding headache, and definitely not the crippling pain in his chest. 

He failed. Last night had been a spectacular failure, and there was no other word he could use to describe it; he had played directly into Moriarty’s hands. John had been right, at the beginning. The security _was_ too good for Moriarty to have gotten in alone in the first place. It had been _much_ easier to simply manipulate John into getting the tablet for him. 

“—listening to me at all!?” comes an angry voice, and John snaps back into the present. 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t sleep well at all,” John says unthinkingly, and it riles Sarah up even more. 

“Were you too busy gloating over this ridiculous mess you’ve made!?” she demands, slamming her hands down on the desk. “This isn’t funny, John, we’re going to have to close the museum today to put everything back in its place!”

John stares at her, baffled. “This isn’t about the tablet?”

“What tablet?” Sarah looks even more confused than him. 

“In The Vault! The tablet of…” He trails off as he catches sight of Sarah’s completely blank look. 

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” he finally says. That was the problem with magical ancient Egyptian tablets, he supposed. If Moriarty already knew this much about it…

John shudders to think of what other unknown properties the tablet could have.

“Look, John, if this is some kind of joke on the tail end of the last disaster you seemed to think was a funny, I have to warn you—.”

“No! No, no, sorry, my mistake, I must have gotten confused,” John blurts out. Sarah eyes him suspiciously, but lets it go. 

An awkward silence falls between them. 

“I suppose I’m fired, then?” John finally asks. “That’s why you called me in here, isn’t it?”

Sarah gives him a look that’s almost apologetic, but the anger quickly overtakes it again. “John, this is so much worse than a couple of stray lizards. The dinosaurs were in the Human Evolution Room. The _Diplodocus’_ s foot was lying next to its pedestal, underneath a fallen _Diprotodon_. We found birds _everywhere_ , John, _everywhere_ , and we still haven’t tracked down both of those parrots. One of the old unpopular statues from the _Crime_ Gallery was literally standing in the doorway. There were—.”

She stops, needing to breathe. She seems to get herself under control, and it’s almost gentle, really, when she eventually says it. “Yes, John. You’re fired.”

John rises from his chair, defeated. He has failed, after all. “All right. I’ll just go get my things from the office—.”

“You can’t leave just yet,” Sarah says, cutting him off. “We need a new night watchman, first.”

John sits down again. “So I keep working here until you hire a new one?”

“If that’s possible for you, yes.”

John thinks about it, but not for long. He needs the money, and the time to find himself a new job before even his horrid beige bedsit evicts him. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s possible.”

“All right,” Sarah says, and John leaves the office, feeling like something has been torn out of his chest.

***  
True to his word, John returns that night just before sunset. 

He turns on all of the lights. 

He locks up all of the birds.

He pets the _Diplodocus_ ’s newly repaired foot.

He goes to apologize to the _Diprotodon_. 

Nothing moves.

Nothing breathes. 

Nothing _lives_.

Feeling as though the walls are closing in on him, he runs to the _Crime_ Gallery and sits down in front of Sherlock’s case. The glass has been repaired after last night’s damage.

It’s as if nothing had ever happened. The lump in his chest threatens to completely consume him.

Abruptly, he stands, then turns. He puts his palm up against the glass, a mirror image of Sherlock’s when he’d begged John to believe him. It feels like an eternity ago, now. 

“I’m sorry,” he manages to choke out, his voice hoarse and broken. “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ , _I’m so sorry, Sherlock_ —.” 

Sherlock remains unmoved by his tears. He stares back blankly through the glass.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For the second time in as many days, he feels the dull ache in the back of his eyes that means that tears will inevitably fall; he watches them pool on the floor as they silently slide from his eyes, the only sound in the gallery his harsh, hiccupping breathing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 2AM. That makes it Saturday.

The next night, John returns to what has rapidly become the worst job in the entire world. 

He runs up to the security office to turn the all of the lights on, but there’s no real reason for it. He just feels uncomfortable and alone with them off.

When they’re on, he can pretend that the _T. Rex_ is only being quiet because it’s glad it hasn’t woken in the dark. 

He spends nearly an hour sitting in the security office, staring at the monitors. He clicks through gallery after gallery, taking care not to look too carefully at _Crime Through the Ages_. He doesn’t have anything to worry about, though, not really.

The dinosaurs are still. The _Diprotodon_ is still. The birds are still. The lizards are still. The Neanderthals are still. The _Diplodocus_ is—

He chokes back a sob. There is no one to blame but himself, and of course that makes everything even worse. He had something amazing, something beautiful, something so blindingly, painfully close to _perfect_ , and he ruined it. Destroyed it beyond repair. 

His knuckles slowly turn white where he’s gripping the desk like his life depends on it. He slowly pries his fingers away and massages his now-aching joints.

Pulling himself together, he heads out of the office, intending to do a walk-around of the museum, like a proper night watchman. He makes sure his torch is properly clipped into his belt, clips his key ring into a different loop, and heads up the stairs.

As he makes his third tour of the museum, it finally dawns on him that the actual job of night watchman would have bored him to tears. If it wasn’t for the _Diplodocus_ ’s nightly greetings, his torch-wrestling matches with the Neanderthals, Guy’s soothing presence in the Cadogan gallery, the general _complete insanity_ of this place, really, he never would have stayed on. 

No. He stops abruptly, shakes his head. Drops his arms to his sides like they’ve suddenly turned to lead. 

It wasn’t the insanity of the museum that had made him come back every night. 

It was Sherlock.

That thought doesn’t make it any easier to put one foot in front of the other again and keep walking.

As he drags himself through the entrance hall again, the still form of the _Diplodocus_ forces him to stop, his heart in his throat. There’s no turn of the head in greeting, no strangely soft skull bumping up against his hand, demanding that he pet it. If the _Diprotodon_ came around the corner right this instant, it would smash him to bits in moments, he’s completely defenseless without the _Diplodocus_ , but that won’t happen anyway, nothing will happen anymore, because—.

_Nothing happens to me._

He becomes aware that he’s pacing frantically, and forces himself to stop. He sits down heavily on the _Diplodocus_ ’s pedestal and his eyes immediately stray where he had prayed they wouldn’t: the Human Evolution Gallery, and the small, unpopular gallery that lies beyond. His legs pull him up almost of their own accord, and suddenly, he’s walking towards the one gallery he swore to himself he wouldn’t enter tonight. 

Greg is looking at him almost accusingly when he walks in, and John stops, startled, before realizing that it’s simply a trick of the light making his eyebrows seem more stern than usual. He tilts his head this way and that, and easily sees that Greg’s eyes are just as dead as the empty sockets of the _Diplodocus_. John swallows, hard, the sound of it echoing throughout the silent gallery. He would much rather have Greg shout at him for his stupidity than have to look into those vacant eyes. He forces his gaze away from Greg, and finds it catching on Molly’s still form instead. They look wrong, positioned so far from each other despite the dark night visible through the windows. John’s chest suddenly feels tight.

The darkness behind them beckons, and John steps automatically forward. 

Sherlock is still wearing his regular purple shirt, the buttons straining across his chest. Now that he knows the truth, John realizes that his clothes _aren’t_ perfectly tailored after all; they were likely taken from another, slightly thinner statue during the refurbishment, and they had hoped no one would notice. His left fist clenches and unclenches once; Sherlock deserves better than that. 

The slightly ill-fitting clothes don’t make him any less beautiful, however. If anything, they bring out the long lines of his body and the firmness of his muscles. John takes a deep breath, then forces his gaze upwards towards Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock’s hair still hangs enticingly low, and John’s hand twitches with the urge to push the curls back from Sherlock’s forehead and kiss him good night. As though he could protect him from anything that could go wrong.

The one thing John had been unable to protect Sherlock from, in the end, was _John_. 

He falls to his knees, resting his forehead against the icy-cold pane of glass. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against it, his breath making a fog of condensation appear near Sherlock’s knees. 

For the second time in as many days, he feels the dull ache in the back of his eyes that means that tears will inevitably fall; he watches them pool on the floor as they silently slide from his eyes, the only sound in the gallery his harsh, hiccupping breathing.

He stays that way for a long time. 

When he finally gathers his wits about him, he sits back against the case as though Sherlock were sitting with him, and not inside of it. He leans back and pulls out his phone.

_thescienceofdeduction.co.uk_

“You’ve still got cases on,” he croaks, his voice sounding broken. “D’you wanna have a look?”

***  
Two hours later, John still hasn’t moved, but for the first time since yesterday, it isn’t because of immobilizing grief. 

_Moriarty had left clues._

John isn’t sure who they were intended for, himself or Sherlock, but the timing of their appearance heavily favours the former. The last few cases Sherlock’s solved and the two most recent messages in the forum are all just a little bit _off_. 

He’s read all of these before, in Sherlock’s company and with excessively snarky commentary (which he adored, of course), but now it looks like they’ve been slightly altered. 

The first odd one he notices is about a woman in possession of a phone containing compromising pictures of a member of the royal family. John doesn’t even notice anything is particularly strange until he figures out what the phone password was before he even gets to the bottom of the post. That hadn’t originally been written in the post; Sherlock had told him about it with a very strange expression on his face, like he couldn’t quite believe that someone had fallen for him. 

John had remedied that situation as quickly as possible. 

He smiles slightly at that, nearly forgetting himself for a moment before pulling up the next post. The next case is about a child’s missing glowing rabbit. 

He stops.

He reads the message again.

The original post is gone. Sherlock had recounted a mad story about him visiting an army base in the middle of the moors and chasing down a genetically-modified super dog that had gone rogue. It was one of the more captivating cases, and had kept John on edge most of the night. This new post, though, has nothing to do with that at all.

His mouth drops open, because Sherlock had actually taken the case of the missing glowing rabbit, apparently situated at the same army base as the super dog, if his memory serves him correctly. Besides the obvious, it’s easy to see that there’s something else that’s different about this post. 

At the very bottom, there’s a phone number listed with the last four digits missing. John quickly pulls up his phone’s keypad, then takes a look at the phone number again. He opens up the notepad application on his phone (something he’s glad Harry had already downloaded for him), then enters the phone number into it. 

Just in case. 

Tapping back, he opens up the next post so quickly he nearly shuts his phone off accidentally in his excitement. A prison breakout; this one, oddly enough, seems unchanged. There are no immediate clues to be gleaned from this post, and for a moment, his heart sinks and he nearly closes the notepad again. 

What stops him are the words at the bottom of the post. They don’t fit at all with the rest of the post, and are written in a different size and font. 

Someone else added these after the post was written and posted; there’s no doubt about it. 

_Oh, Johnny. Guess I was too smart for you, after all._

The string of knife emojis following it leaves no doubt as to the origins of the message’s author.

With shaking fingers, John clicks over to the next post. Two kidnapped children, found at… blank. The address Sherlock had originally listed is gone, but the number of characters it comprises isn’t. Pulling up his phone’s keypad again, John translates the “phone number” into an address. It fits perfectly into the slots. 

John looks up at the window, at the slowly rising sun, and suddenly becomes aware of how cramped and painful his muscles have become from holding this position for hours. He winces as he shuffles his legs around, trying to avoid the pain. Comfortable, he focuses on the phone again.

He opens up the Maps application. 

If this doesn’t work, he’ll quit this job and go back to begging clinics to take him. He can’t bear to spend one more night in this silent tomb that once brought him so much excitement and joy. 

He nods to himself, decision made.

John takes a deep breath, holds it, then types the address into the application. There’s a short pause as it loads, and then—.

_Battersea power station._

He slumps backwards in relief against the case, jostling the glass. The sound startles him. He forgets himself, looking up at Sherlock to check if he’s all right, and is faced with a horrifyingly blank statue. His moment of triumph comes crashing down around his ears, as does the reality of the situation.

Address or no address, why did Moriarty leave clues? This has _trap_ written all over it in block capital letters, and it doesn’t even take John’s military instincts to see that. This time, he even has the luxury of having enough time to make the right decision. 

What he does know, however, is that Moriarty can’t sell the tablet right away; some time needs to pass first, so that it will be less suspicious when he eventually does try to make a sale. Despite what he obviously did to Sarah and potentially the entire board of this museum, Moriarty can’t wipe its existence from the minds of the people he intends to sell it to; how would anyone know how valuable it was?

This means that Moriarty will need somewhere to store the tablet, then, while he lies in wait for the right buyer. And what better place to hide a stolen, pure gold tablet than a disused power station?

It’s probably a trap.

He flips the phone over in his hands as the deathly silence of the museum settles around him once more, and he looks around the tiny gallery once before barking out a dry laugh.

It’s a trap, of course it is. But at this point, what does he have to lose? All he really stands to do is gain a fractional amount of time to get the tablet back.

At the end of his shift, the rising sun shining hot on his face, he heads straight for the power station. 

***  
John makes the cab stop very far away from the entrance, near the only clump of bushes in sight. He pays the cabbie well to drive away exactly the way he came so as not to alert anyone within the power station. 

Alone, he takes the time to have a proper look at the terrain. He groans; the entire way leading up to the door is wide open space, with absolutely nowhere to hide for cover. If Moriarty has snipers, John is a dead man, and Sherlock will remain a statue forever, now without even the pleasure of waking up at night and doing what he loves. There has to be another way, but he hasn’t got much time. He quickly scans the terrain before him, looking for any sort of opening he can find.

In the end, John figures it out; he leaps over a fence to his left and hugs it as he approaches, keeping himself well out of the line of sight of any potential snipers. For the first time in a long time, he thanks his genes for making him so short. 

He shuffles across the fence until the power station is in full view and he has no choice but to leap over and into the open. He looks around, carefully, then takes a detailed look at the building. While the architecture would provide a sniper with several perfect spots from which to take shots at the vast open space before it, there are nearly none on the sides of the building, where John will have to make his approach. The open space on this side is barely 50 meters; if he moves quickly and silently, there’s no reason to think he won’t make it. 

He scrambles over the fence quickly and pastes himself up against it, exposed, but not as exposed as if he hadn’t had the fence at his back. He takes a long look around for the second time before pushing off the fence and jogging towards the door, making sure to run on the balls of his feet for maximum noise reduction in the strange wet soil surrounding the power station. Before he even knows it, he’s reached the door. 

A familiar fist slams into his temple before he can even remember that he doesn’t know how to pick locks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soon :D


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There’s absolutely no warning before Moran’s first slap sends his head flying off to the left, the tendons and ligaments in his neck all protesting the sudden movement. His head spins. He gasps in a breath, frantically trying to recover, but—_
> 
> _The second slap sends his head off in the other direction, and this time, it’s his shoulder that strains with the force of it._
> 
> _His ears are ringing so hard he barely hears Moriarty’s next prompt. “One more for good measure, no, Sebastian?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I present to you... Chapter 13

When he comes to, the only thing he’s aware of is how much his head hurts. There’s a throbbing ache that feels skull-deep, stabbing into his nerves with every beat of his heart. He concentrates fiercely, trying to focus on something, anything else. 

Something trickling down his left temple slowly penetrates the wall of pain, and he realizes he was hit so hard it broke the skin. He fights down the urge to vomit and tries to open his eyes. 

His eyelids must have been turned into lead; there’s no other reason he can think of for this to be _so difficult_. 

He somehow manages to drag open his right eye, but everything he sees is blurry, and once he forces the left one open as well, it’s about the same. He blinks, slowly, trying to rid his eyes of the extra moisture, and eventually, things come into focus. He tries to bring a hand up to feel out the damage at his temple.

He can’t.

His hands are tied tightly to the back of the chair he’s currently sitting on, and the rope is starting to cut off circulation in them. The pins and needles, now that he’s noticed them, are a constant unpleasant buzz at the edges of his consciousness. His legs are free, but there isn’t enough strength in them to accomplish anything useful. He groans as he realizes he’s in a warehouse, and that just as he had thought, the power station was a trap. 

Ignoring the throbbing that each movement causes, he tilts his head upwards and tries to have a look around him. He’s surrounded by piles and piles of boxes, and judging by the corner of what looks like a painting poking out the top of one of the closer ones, they’re filled with the various things that Moriarty has stolen over the last hundred or so years, and is planning to sell once the scandal has died down. 

Immortality has some advantages, he supposes. 

He keeps looking around, seeking out whoever is guarding him (and whoever did this to his head), but there doesn’t seem to be anyone around. He tries to crane his neck to get a look behind him, but the stretching movement sends a horrible lancing pain through his head, and he cries out before sinking back into the blessed numbness of unconsciousness.

***  
The next time he awakens, the lighting is significantly different. Everything is dark, now, but the faint grey glow of the moon illuminates everything just enough that John can make out two people standing just far enough from him that he can’t immediately identify them. 

John isn’t stupid, however. Despite the intense throbbing in his head (which, thank God, has lessened since his first brutal awakening), the short figure in the well-cut suit and the enormous man beside him can only be two people: Moriarty, and whoever has been abusing his skull with his fists. 

“You’ve already got the tablet, and Sherlock,” John grits out, wincing at how dry his voice sounds. “What was the point of this?” 

Moriarty sighs, then turns to the giant man. “Oh, _Sebastian_. You didn’t hit him quite hard enough, did you? We’ll have to have a _talk_ later.”

Rather than look cowed, the larger man smiles a toothy grin, and John can see the dangerous glint in his eyes even from where he’s sitting. “I can fix that,” he sneers. 

Moriarty looks delighted. John shudders. 

“Johnny, here’s what you don’t understand,” he says, striding over until he’s standing directly in front of John. He presses his thumb hard into the large bruise over John’s temple. “Sherlock is _mine_. And you, _tiny, insignificant_ you, thought you could take him from me.”

John realizes that the horrible wet sound he hears is his own ragged breathing. He clamps his lips together as Moriarty pushes harder and harder, blood welling up around his fingers and dripping onto John’s bad shoulder. He heaves a pained, gasping breath. 

“He’s a _person_ ,” he pants out. Moriarty stops pushing, and John slumps into the chair. 

“Maybe he was, once. But I’m pretty sure he’s just a _statue_ , now. And he only has you to thank for that, _Johnny_.” 

The guilt comes crashing down out of nowhere and threatens to crush every organ in John’s body. He struggles under the onslaught for a moment before reality makes him slump against his bonds.

It _is_ his fault, there’s absolutely no denying that. 

A drop of blood lands on his hand, and it’s just enough to startle him back into the present. He shoves the guilt back down and tries to focus on what he came here to do: make Sherlock his own person again. 

Right this wrong.

“So that combination was a lie, then?” he gets out. 

Moriarty bursts out laughing. “Oh, _no_ , Johnny! I would never _lie_ ; that’s not how this works!”

He steps backwards and beckons Sebastian forward with a happy little waggle of his fingers. He gives John an angelic smile. “Besides, doesn’t the fact that it _would’ve_ worked hurt even more? Just how _close_ you were?” 

John tries to ignore him, but the words _do_ hurt. The thought that he was mere seconds from freeing Sherlock makes his chest hurt. He’s had enough of this deranged man’s antics.

“What’s the point of this, then? Why did you lead me here?” he cries. 

“I told you before, Johnny. You tried to take something that was _mine_. Do I need a better reason?” 

He grins as he indicates all of the boxes around them. “But you’re right, there _is_ a better reason. As punishment, I’ve brought you here to watch as I leave this city for the next, _oh_ , hundred or so years? I’ll take the tablet as far from here as I can, where you’ll never be able to find it, and you get to sit here and _watch_ all of your hopes evaporate into so much meaningless dust!” 

A cold shiver washes over John as he hears the distinct sound of a large truck pulling up outside. “You’re—You’re leaving?” 

Moriarty grins. “Yes. But that might not be enough punishment for you… After all, you _want_ me to go, don’t you?”

He turns and clicks his fingers at Sebastian. “This is my friend Sebastian Moran. We grew up together, which is how I learned that he’s _very_ good with his hands.”

Moriarty stands back, watching them expectantly.

There’s absolutely no warning before Moran’s first slap sends his head flying off to the left, the tendons and ligaments in his neck all protesting the sudden movement. His head spins. He gasps in a breath, frantically trying to recover, but—

The second slap sends his head off in the other direction, and this time, it’s his shoulder that strains with the force of it. 

His ears are ringing so hard he barely hears Moriarty’s next prompt. “One more for good measure, no, Sebastian?”

It sounds like he’s underwater.

The force of the uppercut knocks the chair backwards with John’s arms still tied to the back of it. He lands hard, his entire body weight crushing his arms beneath it, and he barely registers the scream that tears from his throat when he feels his left shoulder wrench from its socket. He feels at least three of his fingers break, his wrists sprain, and he can’t stop the pained whimpers from escaping—

His frantically rolling eyes catch on something. Something that is glowing. 

A box near the top of a pile.

Desperate, panting, sweating, he frantically pushes the pain down and focuses on the glowing box, doing his very best to control the pain before it forces him back into unconsciousness. It’s fairly high up, but the moonlight is hitting it directly, and it’s _glowing_. He only knows of one expensive historical item that would glow like that in direct moonlight, and he hangs on to the suddenly realistic hope that the tablet is in this room. 

He tries to ignore the much less realistic hope that he might still be able to get to it. 

His broken fingers grind together as Moran rights the chair again, and he can’t help the pained cry that works its way out from his throat. Moriarty smiles at the sound, and John is absolutely convinced that that smile will give him nightmares for the rest of his days. 

Moriarty starts towards him again, the shark-toothed grin never leaving his face, but stops abruptly when The Bee Gees suddenly start playing loudly in the warehouse. 

John wonders if he’s finally started to hallucinate, but realizes this is actually happening when Moriarty pulls his phone from his pocket. Moran stands frozen, waiting for further directives. 

“Hello?” There’s a brief pause. “Yes, of _course_ it is. What do you want?”

He starts to distractedly pace around for a while, nodding intently as the caller speaks in a tinny sort of murmur, but suddenly halts and whirls back around to face John. 

“ _WHAT DID YOU SAY_!?” he shouts down the line. John’s heart gives a kick at the sound. 

Moriarty starts pacing around again, but he seems to have lost his patience. His voice is low and full of dark promise when he hisses, “Say that again, and know that if you’re lying to me, I will find you, and I will _skin_ you!”

John gulps. He has absolutely no doubt that Moriarty would do it. 

Moriarty hangs up abruptly. 

“Something wrong?” John croaks, any attempt at keeping his voice light lost in his pained panting. 

Moriarty says nothing, just walks to the back of the warehouse and right out the door. Moran looks from him to John, then follows Moriarty out into the night. 

John lets himself slump in the chair, only the ropes holding him up. Less than a second later, he becomes fully aware of the situation. 

He’s alone in the warehouse. It takes mere moments to come to a decision.

He grits his teeth and forces his legs to move. It hurts, all of his muscles do, but he manages to start shoving the chair towards the boxes behind him, the chair’s scraping loud and the echo bouncing off all of the walls of the warehouse. The sound makes his head throb even harder, but his time is limited. He chooses speed over silence, his legs and ears protesting the whole time. 

Somehow, he makes it to the bottom of the precarious pile. There’s only one way to get the box down in this position, and it’s going to exacerbate his already-severe injuries. John closes his eyes, taking a brief moment to steel himself, then knocks the chair into the largest box at the bottom of the pile. He swallows back a scream when his fingers get caught between the pile and the chair, but his only reward is the box creaking slightly to the left. The top of the pile, however, trembles under the onslaught. It won’t take much more of this, but John isn’t sure how much more his fingers can realistically take.

He closes his eyes in defeat. 

He can see him in his head, his quiet smile when they’re alone, the soft sigh he makes when John kisses him, his riot of curls clenched in John’s fingers—.

John takes a deep breath, opens his eyes, then slams into the pile again. 

Four of the boxes fall from the top, their contents shattering as they collide with the unforgiving concrete ground of the warehouse, but the small box with the tablet falls just out of reach. John desperately drags the chair over and topples it, the tablet falling onto the ground. 

Outside, he hears raised voices and footsteps; he hasn’t got much time. The combination is still seared into his mind, and he tries to convince his feet to manipulate the tiles. His arms strain towards the tablet, but even if he was untied, his broken fingers and badly-dislocated shoulder would stop him from doing anything useful with his hands. 

He toes at a tile and manages to flip it to the appropriate image. The voices are getting closer. 

He flips another, then another.

He’s only one tile short of the right combination when the voices become unbearably loud. The door of the warehouse slams open at his back, and sweat drips down his nose as he imagines them taking in the sight before them: broken boxes and artifacts scattered around, the tablet at John’s feet, and John doing his very best to enter the combination with his toes. 

He flips the final tile over, and holds his breath.

Nothing happens.

Then, two things happen at once. 

John groans as he remembers that the tablet is activated by moonlight, and that it is currently mere inches away from a patch of it on the ground. 

Moriarty realizes what’s going on, and clicks his fingers with deadly calm. 

John’s heart sticks in his throat when he hears Moran’s bear-like footsteps barrel towards him. Again, there’s only one thing left for him to do.

Desperate to get the tablet into the moonlight, he shoves his foot beneath it to gain traction, then topples the chair over onto his bad arm to slide it into the small patch of moonlight created by the open door. He screams as he feels his arm snap beneath his weight. 

There’s a blinding light, then the sound of Moriarty screaming something and slamming the door, Moran rushing to his side, but John smiles serenely through the fog of pain when he realizes that Moriarty was too late; it was enough, and the tablet has turned to dust. Moriarty screams again, and the last things he sees before the pain overtakes him are two small piles of bones near the door, lit by the pale grey moonlight.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“John? John Watson?” a quiet voice asks. He nods, unable to speak just yet._
> 
> _The person turns and shouts, the sound gritting on John’s sensitive ears and threatening to put him under again. “Oi! It’s him! I’ve got him!”_

John is jolted back into awareness when someone grabs hold of his broken arm and tugs. A hoarse scream flies from his lips and the person holding it lets go immediately, guiding the damaged limb back down to the floor with a dull thud as John grunts in pain. Somewhere in the back of his head, he realizes that his arms are no longer bound to the chair, and that he’s no longer on his side. He concentrates on the rest of his limbs, then tries to move his good arm. He wrenches it out from under him, but catches sight of his ruined fingers and cries out in alarm, the arm dropping back to the floor. 

Someone puts their arms around his back and pulls him up into a proper sitting position, finally taking all of the pressure off his bad arm. The blood starts to flow back into it, making all of the nerves prickle at first, then burn white hot. The whimpers fall from his lips unbidden. 

“John? John Watson?” a quiet voice asks. He nods, unable to speak just yet. 

The person turns and shouts, the sound gritting on John’s sensitive ears and threatening to put him under again. “Oi! It’s him! I’ve got him!”

He turns back towards John and speaks in a low, reassuring voice. “My name is Detective Inspector Dimmock, I’ve been working your case. You were called in missing last night by a man named Greg, does that ring any bells?” 

John nods. “He’s a friend,” he manages to gasp out. 

Dimmock turns to wave at someone behind him, and a team of paramedics appears. One of them pulls out a small torch and starts going over him inch by inch, assessing the damage. His face is hard when he pulls away to let the rest of the team through.

They lift him onto a stretcher as gently as possible, but someone still manages to catch one of his fingers on the backboard and he shouts in pain. The same paramedic rushes over to check, and the grim mask he’d held onto so far starts to fall. John is barely aware enough to realize he should probably be concerned. 

“Charlie, get some tape and get over here!” the paramedic shouts out behind him, and another paramedic hurries back into the ambulance John imagines must be parked right outside the warehouse. When he returns, the first one starts spewing off everything he’s spotted at a truly impressive speed.

He talks for much too long. 

“Badly dislocated left shoulder, broken left humerus, three broken fingers on the left, two on the right, both wrists sprained, severe bruising on left leg and left arm, ribs somehow intact, possible concussion—,” he breaks off, waving something in front of John’s face. John has no idea what it is. He catches a blurry, perhaps worried expression. “Definite concussion.”

He gently probes at John’s left shoulder, does a double take, then feels around the area a second time. This time, the mask falls completely, revealing a man who’s only seen injuries this severe in car wrecks. He turns to John.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but we have to reset your arm, there may already be nerve damage and we need to minimize it.”

John can feel his consciousness slipping away again. 

“Sir? Dr. Watson!” the man shouts. There’s some muttering, something that sounds like, _Well if he isn’t conscious, he won’t feel this_ , and then his arm is repositioned, hanging directly down off the backboard and stretcher. “Charlie, stand over—yes, good, alright, on three, one, two, THREE—.”

Anything else is lost in John’s scream of pain. 

***  
The next time he wakes, he’s clean, warm, and in a hospital bed. His left arm is in a cast from shoulder to wrist, bent forwards in front of him, and the wrist that is free of the cast is tightly bandaged. His fingers are encased in so much tape that it looks like he’s wearing two large white mittens. His left leg throbs with every beat of his heart.

He looks down, trying to move various things to take stock of his injuries. He clearly remembers his arm snapping when he’d toppled the chair (a clean break, easier to heal), and his shoulder dislocating the first time the chair was pushed back. His face aches, and he recalls the two vicious slaps, as well as the uppercut, which would explain the whiplash-like pain in his neck. His fingers, however, will be mostly up to luck, at this point. They were broken and un-taped for much too long before they were stabilized; he’s honestly lucky none were necrotic enough to be amputated. 

It takes him several minutes to calm his breathing and push the sudden crushing tightness in his chest back down.

He forces himself to take stock of the rest of the room. The fluorescent lights aren’t on, which is nice, because he’s always hated hospital lighting. Instead, the light comes in from the windows, the bright sunny day outside mocking his current predicament. The door to the loo is open, which annoys him, but he can’t stand up to close it just yet, and definitely won’t be able to for a while.

The morphine drip is on, as well, which explains why he’s not in greater distress. He’s not sure how well his body will deal with it when the drip is eventually turned off. Someone has left him flowers (he hasn’t the faintest who, the only person who even knows he’s back from Afghanistan is Stamford). And… someone is sitting in the flimsy plastic visitor’s chair, their chin tucked up against their chest as they snore. 

It hits him like a brick wall: he had been called in as a missing person by someone named _Greg_.

The only thing stopping John from falling out of bed in shock is the morphine. His head flies to the window again with complete disregard for the pain in his neck; he confirms that it is indeed day time. He turns back towards his visitor, but Sherlock snores on, completely oblivious to the chaos going on in John’s head. John gapes for a full minute before attempting to take action.

“Sh—,” he tries, but his throat closes up, completely dry. He coughs a bit, burning and irritating his throat. “Sher—.”

He needs moisture, and rather desperately. He weakly raises his hand towards what looks like a cup full of ice chips on the wheeled table near the bed, but the pulse oximeter on his finger just knocks the cup further away from him. His groan of frustration sticks in his throat, as well.

Luckily, the sound of hard plastic against hard plastic seems to jolt Sherlock from his sleep, and he wakes up, his head flying from his chest as he blinks owlishly around. John points weakly at the cup, wanting to at least be able to speak for this conversation. 

Sherlock looks at the cup, confused, then seems to finally understand and grabs for it, picking out an ice chip. He looks at John’s hand, and John shakily lifts his hand up to meet Sherlock’s, but Sherlock seems to change his mind halfway through and instead leans over John to put the chip directly in his mouth. 

John opens his mouth to accept it, too weak at this point to protest, and Sherlock slips the chip inside. The moisture explodes over John’s tongue and his thirst seems to awaken in full force. He’s barely swallowed the first chip before he’s pointing at the cup for a second, and it doesn’t take long for Sherlock to catch on. Once half the chips are gone, John shakes his head, and Sherlock puts the cup back on the table and sits down. 

“Sherlock,” he finally manages to force out. Then, at a loss for how he can possibly explain all of this to him, he blurts out, “Hi.”

Sherlock, gives him a pinched, fake smile. His hands are trembling slightly, like he’s trying to rein himself in. “Hi.”

John’s smile falls off his face. “I was trying to—.”

“ _You were almost killed, you complete idiot_!” Sherlock explodes. His eyes are wild, his chest heaving. 

John is surprised at this turn of events. He thought he’d be yelled at first for locking Sherlock in his case. Sherlock seems to realize this, and therefore moves on to that portion of his speech. 

“Do you have any idea what it was like!? I awoke in complete darkness for the second time in as many nights, and no amount of shouting would alert Greg and Molly of my predicament, because someone had placed _a sound-proof tarp over my case and locked me in_!”

John clears his throat and tries again. “I was trying to—.”

Sherlock ignores him and goes right on. “I ran after you, John. I deduced what he’d told you, but _of course_ it was too good to be true! How could you have believed him!?”

Sherlock runs his fingers through his hair, his hands clenching into fists in his curls. 

“Can you imagine how it felt, then, to reawaken well past sunset, and realize what you must have done? That somehow you had come through, but in all likelihood, you were dead!? I couldn’t even call you in as a missing person, Lestrade had to because my first reaction was to have a panic attack!”

John flinches at Sherlock’s words, but he knows he’s right. 

John can picture it perfectly: Sherlock pale and trembling, convinced John is dead, Molly and Greg desperately trying to comfort him, Greg deciding to take action when it becomes clear that Sherlock won’t be able to…

John bows his head, the full implication of what he had done to him finally sinking in. 

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” is all he can think to say, all he _can_ say.

Sherlock glances at him, but there doesn’t seem to be any stopping him, now. 

“I managed to calm down enough to check my blog while he was on the phone, and _of course_ the power station was a trap, what were you _thinking_!? The warehouse wasn’t hard to trace from there, he couldn’t have taken you very far without you eventually waking, so I told Greg to tell them exactly where you would be, but it still took them _hours_ to find you, John, _hours_ , and the sun was rising and I would have to get back into my case—.”

John manages to cut in. “But you didn’t.”

“What?”

“You didn’t have to get back in your case.”

Sherlock’s face softens; it’s almost a smile. He looks almost dreamily around the drab hospital room. “No,” he concedes. “I didn’t.”

His face hardens again almost immediately.

“I didn’t _know_ that though, did I!? It took me _ages_ to realize that I was free, and by the time I did it was nearly noon and I was sure they’d have found you by then. My first _inkling_ was when everyone went back to being statues, but somehow, I was still moving. 

“But I didn’t know I was _free_! I pretended to be a tourist, it took me nearly two hours to try leaving through the front entrance!”

His hair looks like it’s in danger of being pulled completely out by the roots, so John reaches out a gentle hand to try to take a hold of Sherlock’s. He cradles it between his oversized mittens, and when Sherlock looks down, his angry rant comes to an abrupt stop, replaced by harsh, hiccupping breaths, and then the tears start to flow. 

“Thank you, John. I can’t even begin to— I love you. I love you so much,” he chokes out. He glances up at the window again in a way that suggests he’s been doing it a lot. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen _sunlight_?”

John feels like his heart will shatter into a million pieces. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand as best as he can. 

“I love you, Sherlock,” he says quietly.

Sherlock looks up at John, and his momentary joy is suddenly eclipsed by the pain in his eyes. “But you’re— How could he—.”

“He was… angry. To say the least,” John says. “He said I’d tried to take what was his.”

Sherlock looks confused. 

“You,” John clarifies. Sherlock’s face darkens further. 

“Where is he,” he demands, voice low and harsh. “I’m going to find him and—.”

“He’s dead, Sherlock. He disintegrated along with the tablet.”

“He’s—,” Sherlock begins, but can’t bring himself to continue. Instead, he brings John’s ruined left hand to his lips with trembling fingers and kisses the small exposed surface of his thumb. 

“Thank you,” he says reverently. 

John smiles up at him, and Sherlock smiles shakily, tearfully back, and for now, that’s enough.

***  
It takes John several weeks to get out of hospital. During that time, Sherlock stays with him the entire day, every single day, driving the nurses insane during the entirety of visiting hours.

It only takes three days for John to start to wonder if there’s something seriously wrong.

John’s first awakening aside, Sherlock isn’t nearly as affectionate out here as he was in the museum, and John doesn’t understand. He’d thought Sherlock had forgiven him for locking him in his case, but his lack of demonstrative affection is starting to make John wonder if they’re still okay. When Sherlock had left the previous day, John had strained upwards for a kiss (to the best of his abilities), and Sherlock had given him a handshake. 

A _handshake_. 

Sherlock also refuses to answer questions about where he’s been staying, but John strongly suspects that he heads to the museum at night, breaks in, and spends his nights among his old friends, possibly cat-napping near or in his case. The thought breaks John’s heart, because while he had been able to free Sherlock, it was impossible for him to give him much else. 

Just when John isn’t sure he can take Sherlock’s aloofness anymore, Sherlock swans in looking immensely pleased with himself. The nurse rearranging John’s sling and two remaining bandages takes one look at him and gives John a knowing wink before leaving the room. John blushes beet red. 

“Sherlock, good news! I’m—.”

“I’ve found rooms!” Sherlock happily shouts over him. John completely forgets what he was going to say in favour of feeling like a bucket of ice has just been emptied over his head. 

“You’ve… What!? How!? With what money!?”

He’d been right. Now that he’s free, Sherlock is leaving him. 

John refuses to let himself be upset. He loves Sherlock, and if this is what will make him happy, so be it.

Sherlock gives him his best _I love you, but you’re a complete idiot_ face. “John, I have a bank account, if you recall. It’s how my clients paid me when they consulted me through the blog. I hope you didn’t think we’d be living in your horrid bedsit.”

_We_.

John feels like all of the air has suddenly rushed back into the room. He feels a weight he wasn’t even aware of fall off his shoulders, letting him breathe freely. He’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.

He realizes Sherlock is still looking at him expectantly, waiting for some sort of reaction. Sherlock’s hands start to twitch nervously. John scrambles for words.

“Your consulting can’t _possibly_ pay that much—.” He stops as Sherlock brandishes his banking app in front of his nose, and his jaw drops open. He stops protesting quite so much.

“It’s in Baker Street,” Sherlock continues, his confidence back, but an air of nervousness still hanging about him. “In fact, it’s where I used to live; the building is still owned by my landlady’s granddaughter.” 

“And how did you—.”

“I convinced her that I was my own grandson, and that I would be interested in renting the rooms upstairs. Sorry, the _flat_.” He scrunches his nose, clearly having learned that despite his usually good grasp of modern slang, he was still lacking certain words. He looks jumpier than usual, wringing his hands in his lap, as though he desperately wants to say something else. 

John waits.

Eventually, Sherlock takes a breath, looks around nervously, then leans in and very quietly says, “There’s a room upstairs, and I’ve told her we’ll need both, but we both know you’ll be sleeping in my own bedroom (I mean _ours_ , of course) much more often than you ever will upstairs, but for appearances’ sake, you might want to sleep there on the days that Mrs. Hudson comes upstairs to clean our rooms—.”

It takes a moment, but the implications of that statement finally crash over John, making Sherlock’s odd lack of affection over the past few weeks suddenly perfectly clear. John feels a grin start to spread over his face, unstoppable, and then he opens his mouth and laughs. He laughs harder than he has in _months_. 

Sherlock doesn’t suddenly hate him, or regret his forgiveness; he just hadn’t wanted them both to be arrested. 

Sherlock just watches him, looking more and more confused. Eventually, he opens his mouth to speak, but John cuts him off by pulling him down with his now-much-less-bandaged hand and kissing him soundly on the mouth with the shades drawn up on the window and in full view of the entire corrridor.

Sherlock draws back in shock. John laughter peters off into giggles. 

“You haven’t really kept track of politics, have you? More specifically, gay rights? You’ve mostly focused on advancements in forensics?”

Sherlock looks at him like he’s grown horns. “The current king of England’s actions have no bearing on mine, John, of course I don’t follow politics. But what do you mean? There are rights for people who are happy? Or do you mean in the sense of people who attend parties too often?” 

“Gay is… You know what a homosexual person is, right?”

Sherlock nods, and his voice drops to an uncertain whisper. “I’m homosexual. As are you.” 

“Well actually—.”

John stops, deciding to keep it simple for now, and provide Sherlock with many helpful brochures as soon as they’ve settled in. His own bisexuality, for one, may prove difficult to explain. 

“Okay. Well, the slang term for ‘homosexual’ would be ‘gay.’ And while there are still a lot of advances to be made, it’s all right to say that. It’s… safe. And legal!” he hastens to add, when Sherlock still looks confused. 

Sherlock doesn’t move for several moments.

“It’s… legal?” He breathes. 

“Yeah, so we won’t have to hide from Mrs. Hudson. We can share whichever bedroom we like, although I don’t think she’s going to be our housekeeper, you may want to clarify that with her. I don’t think landladies still—.”

Sherlock cuts him off by kissing him on the mouth, hard, with tongue, until John is a panting, melted mess in his own bed. Sherlock turns to look out the room’s large window, at the nurses and doctors walking past, and smiles tentatively before turning back to John. 

“It’s been _weeks_ , John,” Sherlock whispers. He looks adorably flushed, and lovely, and John needs to change the subject before he pulls him down into the bed with him.

“That nurse that was just leaving? She told me I’m getting discharged today,” he says instead.

Sherlock’s answering grin lights up the whole room, and John finds himself being snogged to within an inch of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as the story goes, that's it!!! All that's left is a happy little epilogue :)
> 
> Thank you all so much for following this completely mad story, and for all of your lovely comments. 
> 
> Just.
> 
> Thank you <3


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In short: they're just_ happy.

“Sherlock,” John pants out, “We can’t just—.”

A moan slips unexpectedly from his lips as Sherlock grinds against him. Sherlock lifts his head from where it was just sucking at John’s pulse point and gives him a long, searing kiss. John can’t remember what his objection was. 

Mrs. Hudson’s door opens a bit more loudly than usual, its very _creaking_ sounding reproachful, and John immediately remembers. 

“Boys, I love that you’re happy, I really do, but in the _hall_?” she chides. 

She looks sternly from one to the other, and John can feel a horrible blush coming on that has nothing to do with the arousal that must be fairly obvious in his thin trousers and short coat. The stare-down can only go on for so long, however, and Sherlock gives him one quick, heated look before they’re running up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson’s exasperated sigh following them. Her door slams just as they open their own.

“We can’t just—,” John tries again, but he still doesn’t manage to get further than that, because he’s now pressed up against the door frame of his own flat, trying to remember his own name, and this just won’t do. 

He reaches up and flips them around so that Sherlock is the one pressed into the door frame. John firmly presses a thigh up between Sherlock’s legs, feeling his obvious erection right through both their trousers, and Sherlock moans into his mouth, his hands coming up to convulsively grip at John’s shoulders.

“She’ll kick us out,” John murmurs into his skin. He delicately nips and licks down Sherlock’s neck, stopping only to suck a bruise into the junction of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. The high-pitched sound this pulls from Sherlock goes straight to John’s cock.

“She loves us,” Sherlock manages to gasp out. “John—Need you—.”

He reaches between them and starts trying to undo both his flies and John’s at once; it proves futile, and John pauses in his marking of Sherlock’s neck to help him. He captures Sherlock’s mouth again as he takes them both in his hand, muffling Sherlock’s desperate moan against his own lips. Sherlock shudders, then starts thrusting frantically against him. John immediately lets go, gives Sherlock a teasing grin, and then they’re both stumbling towards the bedroom. 

Inside, John shoves Sherlock face down onto the bed and digs around in the drawer for the lube. Once he finds it, he throws it in Sherlock’s general direction before following after it, yanking off his trousers when he finds that Sherlock has already divested himself of his own. John haphazardly pours lube all over his left hand before slowly rubbing at Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock, for his part, desperately pushes back against him, muffled whimpers escaping him whenever John’s fingers threaten to breach him. 

After several minutes of simply _watching_ Sherlock writhe wantonly beneath him, John takes pity on him and seeks out his prostate.

Sherlock’s reaction, as always, is explosive.

He throws his head back, arches his back, clenches all of his muscles as John rubs the small gland in relentless circles. John’s cock twitches in sympathy when a garbled moan is the only sound Sherlock seems capable of forcing past his lips.

John looks down at the gorgeous tableau beneath him and finds that he can’t help himself; it’s almost like his tongue is acting of its own accord when it starts to lick around the area where his fingers are plunging in and out of Sherlock. He laps delicately around the edges, points his tongue so that he can lick between his fingers, until Sherlock is sobbing into the sheets, his fists clenched and his toes curled. 

“John, I need you, I need you _inside_ —.”

John quickly pulls out his fingers and lines himself up, and both of them shout when he easily sinks in to the hilt. He tries to take a second to get accustomed to the feeling, but Sherlock is already pressing back against him. 

“John, do it, _please_ ,” he cries, and John can’t hold back anymore. He starts thrusting in earnest, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing loudly in the bedroom, Sherlock’s fists clawing at the sheets as he tries to hold himself upright. The sounds coming from his mouth are positively pornographic, and John won’t be able to hold on much longer. He reaches beneath them to tease at Sherlock’s nipples through his shirt, rubbing the material over them as Sherlock’s moans get louder and louder. 

“Come, love, come for me, I want to see you,” he babbles as the pleasure starts to overtake him. Sherlock pants back, whimpers interspersed with moans seeming like the only sounds he’s capable of making right now.

John pinches both of Sherlock’s nipples at once, _hard_ , and Sherlock goes rigid beneath him, nearly sobbing as his cock twitches and jerks and he comes all over himself without ever having been touched. 

He looks gorgeous, perfect, irresistible, and it drags John right over the edge. For what feels like an eternity, everything is a blend of white noise and pleasure.

John collapses on top of Sherlock and they lie there, panting, for several long moments before either of them speaks. 

“That was _brilliant_ ,” John murmurs into the nape of his neck. “I can’t believe you deduced all of that just from the size of the coffee stain on his shirt.”

Sherlock smiles against the sheets, but his face goes serious again just as quickly. “I never could have done it if you hadn’t explained that people make coffee using _pods_ now,” he says with disgust. John runs his hand soothingly through his hair.

“You’re learning, love. You’ve been locked up in a single building for over a hundred years; it’s only natural that things have changed. You’ve barely been out six months,” John says reassuringly. 

Sherlock flips over. “I’m glad that _one_ thing has changed, at least,” he says, giving John a lazy kiss, and John feels a pang of sadness for how lonely Sherlock must have been in 1892, having to hide himself away, never knowing who he could reveal his secret to. He kisses Sherlock back enthusiastically, hoping he can convey just how much he loves him. 

Sherlock pulls away, but keeps their lips mere millimeters from each other. 

“And you look so _sexy_ with that gun,” he practically growls, and John is on top of him before he can say another word. 

_Ping._

“Ignore it,” John murmurs, but it doesn’t stop. 

_Ping._

_Ping._

_Ping._

“Case!” Sherlock shouts, and is pulling his trousers back on before John even realizes he isn’t underneath him anymore. John dazedly pulls on his own while Sherlock scrolls through the messages and brandishes the image of a corpse at him. 

They both look out the window simultaneously. 

Sunset. 

They turn back to grin at each other. 

“Ask Greg and Molly?” John asks, already looking forward to petting the _Diplodocus_.

“Ask Greg and Molly,” Sherlock confirms, and then they’re in a cab, lock picks in hand, shouting at the cabbie to get them to the Natural History Museum as fast as he can drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *breathes out*
> 
> Well, that happened. I actually wrote a 32k word fic about Night at the Museum.
> 
> Just... Thank you. Thank you to all of you who took the time to read this insanity, who commented, who yelled, who left kudos, all of you, because you're all amazing and supportive and just generally wonderful, wonderful people.
> 
> And of course, a special shout out to **[sherrllocked](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sherrllocked)** for putting up with me. 
> 
> THANK YOU <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
> 
> Also, please come give me a shout at **[my tumblr!](http://consultingpurplepants.tumblr.com)**! :)


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